


Sheet Music

by phabulousphantom



Series: Sheet Music [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (Like Barely), Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Fluff, Gay Keith (Voltron), Hand Jobs, Lots of kissing, M/M, Minor Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Musicians, Oral Sex, Quick Burn, Romance, Texting, klance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2019-10-07 22:31:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 73,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17374445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phabulousphantom/pseuds/phabulousphantom
Summary: Lance is a senior studying trombone at The New Altea Institute of Music, the country's leading music school. Though, if customers at the record store where he works ask what he plays, he always lies and says guitar.He loves music--every genre--but with graduation approaching and options in the world of classical trombone minimal at best, Lance is doing his best to put on a happy face and ignore the future.Then Shiro invites him out to see his younger brother's band play.Lance didn't even know Shirohada brother.





	1. First Movement

**Author's Note:**

> A humble recommendation from the author:
> 
> Listen to the music for the set either in-sync with your reading or beforehand. I've created a lovely little YouTube playlist, linked [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLi8jFo752UlBbyAx3ahAKQV_2s0a_WJPC). Your experience will be GREATLY enhanced.
> 
> This is the setlist in case you hate YouTube or the videos are blocked in your region:
> 
> Money for Nothing - Dire Straits  
> Rebel Yell - Billy Idol  
> Paint It, Black - The Rolling Stones  
> Caprice 24 (first theme) - Paganini, performed by Hilary Hahn  
> The Devil Went Down to Georgia - The Charlie Daniels Band  
> Mickey - Toni Basil  
> Landslide - Fleetwood Mac  
> Crystal Ball - Styx  
> Jessie's Girl - Rick Springfield  
> Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight) - ABBA  
> Sunglasses at Night - Corey Hart
> 
> Enjoy!

One did not simply say “no” to Takashi Shirogone: Campus Dad and Daddy. One _especially_ did not say no when one was in receipt of an invitation to go somewhere. Not that Lance would have _ever_ said no, but when he opened the car door and dangled his legs out to take a look at their location, he regretted saying yes. Just a little bit.

            The venue was like some kind of alien mothership that had dropped out of the sky. The massive black pyramid sat alone at the back of a sprawling dirt lot far outside the city center. It was windowless, and maybe five or six stories tall, with a single entrance like the opening into a tomb. A purple neon sign that said _Blade Base_ in block capitals hung over that opening. The only indication the place was even open was the color-changing light that shone through the building’s glass capstone in a giant beam. And all the cars in the lot.

            “Where the _hell_ are we?” Pidge, the only one who ever had enough balls to question Shiro, asked as she craned her neck from the middle seat.

            “It’s a music club,” Shiro replied. He took the keys from the ignition and got out of the car. “I told you that.”

            “Nah, this some Freemasons shit,” Pidge replied. She climbed over Lance and eyeballed the pyramid. Matt wasn’t far behind her, shoving his elbows in Lance’s face and going out his door just to be annoying. “But, like, _evil_ Freemasons.”

            “Darkmasons,” Matt contributed.

            “Keepers of the Unholy Grail,” Pidge replied.

            The exchange sent them down the Holt family rabbit hole of obscure knowledge and incomprehensible puns. They moved off toward the club, talking so fast and with so many hand gestures that they could have been speaking another language altogether. Shiro offered an encouraging smile to Lance before following Matt and Pidge. Lance turned his attention to Hunk, who was still sitting in the front passenger seat, digging through the glove compartment.

            “Whatcha looking for, buddy?” Lance asked.

            “My theory notes,” Hunk replied.

            “From last semester?”

            Hunk nodded. “I let Shiro borrow them so he could see how Slav taught the class, you know, because he can’t stand to talk to the guy, but now I need them for a, um, thing so…”

            Lance raised an eyebrow. “A thing?”

            Shutting the glovebox, Hunk flashed a cheesy smile and climbed out of the car. By the time Lance had hopped down and locked the car, Hunk was halfway across the dirt lot, practically leaving a dust cloud behind him. Lance jogged to catch up. The evening air was cold against his arms, short sleeves and all, but he’d opted to go jacketless in favor of displaying the block-color pattern on his baby blue printed oversize button down. Between that, the fitted grey Adidas sweats, and the Jesus sandals, he’d spent a long-ass time deciding what to wear. And per the usual, Lance was the only one of them—besides Shiro—who, like, _got ready_.

            “What thing?” he asked as he caught up.

            “Some place, huh? I wonder what the inside looks like.”

            “Hunk, what thing?”

            But Hunk just picked up his pace and hurried to reach the rest of their group. Huffing, Lance followed suit.

            The club’s weird entrance was lit by a dim purple light, and Shiro was pulling open one of the double doors as Hunk and Lance arrived at the back of the group. Music burst from inside—live music, some kind of breezy synthpop. Shiro held the door, and the rest of them shuffled inside, then waited for him because he was their alpha human, and the guy who’d done the inviting.

            Right on the other side of the door was a roped-off area with a cover charge booth. The rest of the club was one free-flowing space all the way to the ceiling and the glass capstone. Ground level, there was a bar covered in purple neon, an array of tables and lounge seats, and a lowered stage at the far end with a dancefloor in front of it. Two balconies that covered three sides of the pyramid jutted out from the diagonal walls. Above those hung trusses with a lot of fancy lighting pointed at the stage. Somehow the place had great acoustics.  

            The club floor was packed, but Shiro still managed to recognize and flag somebody down as they approached the cover charge booth. It was a big guy—like, _big_ big—with silver hair in a braid tucked over one shoulder.

            “Kolivan! Hey!”

            The guy’s stony face cracked into a smile and he raised his hand in greeting, coming over to the booth.

            “Glad you could make it,” Kolivan said. He put his hand out and he and Shiro did one of those masculine hugs with the back patting. “No cover charge, come on in. There’s a table reserved for you stage left.”

            Shiro thanked him and guided their group onto the club floor. They all stuck close to Shiro, even Lance, though his eyes combed the place with keen interest.

            He spent a lot of time in music and dance clubs—every weekend he wasn’t working at the record store, as a matter of fact. Veronica made fun of him for it, saying he was overcompensating for being a trombone player studying at the leading classical music school in the country. That was pretty much true, but hell if he would have given her the satisfaction. Every time somebody came into the store and got talking to him about music and asked what he played, Lance would always lie and say guitar.

            “Everybody, this is Kolivan,” Shiro introduced. “He owns Blade Base.”

            Kolivan raised a hand in greeting. “Welcome. You’re students at New Altea?” He looked them over, and everyone nodded, intimidated. Kolivan laughed. “Hope you don’t mind rock music.” 

            “We’re band kids, not a church choir,” Pidge replied, which earned another laugh.

            “Enjoy the show,” he said and nodded at them before moving off.

            Shiro competently navigated the busy club to their reserved table. It was right at the edge of the steps down to the dancefloor and had a great view of the stage over the heads of the crowd. Lance almost couldn’t believe how many people were there. He’d never even _heard_ of Blade Base and he’d been to most of the music clubs in Altea. The place had to be at capacity, or close to it.

            “You guys want anything to eat? Drink?” Shiro asked, taking off his black members only jacket and swinging it over the back of one of the chairs.

            He was looking particularly fine that evening in a pair of grey and white plaid sporty trousers with black racing stripes, slim fit white short-sleeve button up doing an excellent job exhibiting his arms—state-of-the-art prosthetic included. Practically everyone at New Altea had had a crush on Shiro at some point, and Lance was no exception. How he’d managed to become actual friends with the school’s most famous cellist was still beyond him, though.

            “What kind of food? Pub food?” Pidge asked, claiming her own seat. “I would _kill_ for some chicken fingers right now.”

            “No killing necessary,” Shiro replied with a laugh. “Anybody else?”

            People placed orders, but Lance didn’t pay attention. He’d sat down and noticed the handwritten reservation marker, which had reminded him why they were there in the first place. He flashed back a couple days to a study session in the library.

            “You guys wanna come?” Shiro had asked, tossing a business card for Blade Base onto the table. “My brother’s band is playing on Saturday.”

            “You have a _brother?_ ” Lance had gaped.

            Shiro had laughed—good natured as always—and given them the details, offered to pick them up. Everyone had agreed that meeting Shiro’s heretofore unmentioned brother was worth whatever agony they might have to endure listening to a shitty rock band play for an hour or two. Now, though, having seen the establishment, Lance got the feeling the band might not be so shitty.

            The little notecard on their table said “Reserved: Bennie and the Jets” in block lettering.

            “Lance?”

            Startling, Lance looked up to find an expectant Shiro smiling at him.

            “You want anything?” he asked.

            “Whatever you’re having, fearless leader,” Lance replied with a false grin. He’d been caught imagining what a younger Shirogone brother might have looked like.

            In all honesty, he’d been wondering since the study session. Like, a lot. Most of his allotted daydream time had been dedicated to this mystery brother, as had some of the time he should have been paying attention. He’d missed pretty much every single one of his entrances during rehearsal that afternoon and Coran had yelled at him. Like, a lot.

            “I’ll help you carry,” Hunk said, sounding too eager.

            Together he and Shiro left the table. Lance watched as the pair of them disappeared into the crowd. He narrowed his eyes. Not that Hunk’s being helpful was particularly suspicious—he was _Mr_. Helpful—just that Lance got the feeling he was avoiding a subject. Whatever it was he’d been avoiding outside.

            “You guys have any idea why Hunk would want his theory notes back?” Lance asked, looking at Matt and Pidge.

            “Because Slav’s a nut?” Matt replied.

            “Any coherent notes taken in that man’s class are worth eight times their weight in gold,” Pidge said with a snort. She slumped in her chair so she could rest her head on the back. “He probably wants to sell them.”

            Hunk _could_ sell his notes if he wanted. They were like little works of art unto themselves—perfectly organized, meticulously color-coded. The guy was almost as talented at taking notes as he was at singing, and he was a damn good vocalist. Still, Hunk wasn’t the type to exploit his fellow students. The opposite, if anything.

            Over on the stage, the synthpop artist reached the end of their song and the audience responded with a lot of whistling and clapping. Lance found himself applauding even though he hadn’t really listened. The crowd around the dancefloor broke up as the performance ended, and the lights rose, background music coming on. A flurry of techies took to the stage to start clearing instruments and setting up for the next act. It was then Shiro and Hunk reappeared with an array of food and drinks. Pidge rubbed her hands together when Hunk set a basket of chicken fingers in front of her.

            “Are you ever going to stop ordering off the kid’s menu?” Lance asked.

            “Of course not,” Pidge replied, dipping a chicken finger in her honey mustard and pointing it at him. “It’s part of my youthful charm.” She took a bite and continued with her mouth full. “Besides, this place doesn’t _have_ a kid’s menu. It’s a club? For adults?”

            Lance shielded his eyes with his hand like he was trying to see faraway and squinted as he looked right at Pidge. “Funny. I don’t see any adults.”

            She threw a fry at him, then Matt joined in, swiveling his neck around and deliberately looking over Pidge’s head. “Me either.”

            “Do you want to die tonight?” Pidge asked.

            “Hey, if it gets me out of playing ‘Vesuvius’, I’m down, honestly,” Matt replied.

            Pidge rolled her eyes. “God. Ticheli turns you into such a baby.”

            He made a grab at her fries, so Pidge swooped in to defend them, squawking and flapping and slapping Matt’s hands away. He was lucky he didn’t get a reed knife pulled on him. Lance had seen that happen more than once. Pidge always carried a good five or six.

            With the Holts occupied, Hunk and Shiro passed out the rest of the spread—an appetizer sampler for the table, a local brew beer for Matt, a thing of onion rings and a Moscow Mule for Hunk. When Shiro offered Lance one of the identical drinks in his hands, Lance regretted telling the guy to get him whatever he was having. This was to be an evening of regrets, apparently.

            “Whiskey ginger,” Shiro said with a dad smile.

            Lance took the drink. “Fantastic.”

            He sipped with as much decorum as he could manage. Liquor was liquor, and he was convinced he’d need it in order to survive the set from Shiro’s brother’s band, but the stage was practically transformed when Lance looked at it next. The crew had set up an elaborate drum kit, a selection of keyboards, a slick black bass on a stand, and a handful of various acoustic and electric guitars. They were in the process of guiding a neon sign down from the flies. Big ol’ cursive font—purple, per the theme. _Luxite_ , it said.

            “Wow, this is like a for reals thing,” Pidge commented.

            “Did you think it wouldn’t be?” Shiro asked with a frustratingly innocent brow pucker.

            “Shiro, your brother plays in a fuggin’ oldies cover band. _Of course_ I’m gonna think it’s a joke,” Pidge replied, gesturing with one of her chicken fingers. “How could I _not?_ ”

            Unsurprisingly, Shiro couldn’t see the humor. Pidge shook her head and shoved the rest of the chicken in her mouth. Shiro looked to Matt for an explanation, but Matt only offered a shrug and a shit-eating grin. Lance hid behind his drink. Shiro had this way of forcing the truth out of him, and Lance was not to prepared to admit how hard he’d laughed about the cover band thing.

            “Why did you come if you thought it was going to be bad?” Shiro asked the group.

            “Why do we watch _Troll 2_ and _Birdemic_?” Pidge replied.

            “You were going to _heckle_ my brother?”

            “Not heckle, not heckle,” Matt replied. “More like ‘offer humorous commentary on’.”

            Shiro regarded them all with something akin to both shock and pity—with a little bit of amusement sprinkled on top. He shook his head and settled back in his seat, sipping his whiskey ginger with a subdued smile.

            “Good luck,” he said.

            Then—as if someone somewhere had a good sense for dramatic timing—the overhead lights dimmed. The stage lights rose, and the whole club started applauding as a handful of people appeared. One was Kolivan, who took a seat behind the drum kit. Another was a tall, skinny guy with a white almost-mohawk. He picked up the bass and slung the strap over his shoulder. Third was a blonde girl sporting a set of mega pigtails. She waved at her spectators as she wormed her way between a gap in the keyboards. Last, a knock-out lady with thick, messy, purple hair who grabbed one of the electric guitars. She acknowledged the audience with a single nod.

            “I thought you said this was your _younger_ brother’s band,” Pidge complained.

            The musicians tested their instruments for a second, then the stage lights dimmed, and the club lights shut off completely, leaving them all in a hazy, purple darkness. The audience whistled for it. The band started to play.

            A spacey, atmospheric tone from the keyboard, then a voice—probably the hot lady—came in with a lyric:

            “ _I want my…I want my MTV…_ ”

            The crowd applauded and cheered _again_ upon recognizing the song. Pidge pantomimed buckling a seatbelt, but the sound was actually pretty incredible. Lance found himself smiling. He liked 80s music. He liked _all_ music, really, as long as it was played well. Rap, rock, country, pop, EDM—hell, he was a _classical_ trombonist who worked in a record store. He wasn’t about to be picky with genre, and was willing to die on the hill of _all music is good music_.

            The keyboard part built as the vocalist repeated the lyric a few more times. In Lance’s humble opinion, which wasn’t all that humble, “Money for Nothing” had one of the best openings in all of rock history and damn if these guys weren’t killing it. The drummer came in with those first beats and triggered an effect with the lights—a couple of strobes going off in perfect time.

            “Oh, damn,” Pidge whispered.

            The effect continued, backlighting a fifth person who had arrived on the stage, back to the audience. And the drums kept building, melting with the keyboard, all of it rising, rising, rising until a guitar cut in and everything else went silent—spotlight up on mystery figure—for the solo.   

            It was immediately obvious that _this_ was Shiro’s brother. For a couple of riffs it was hard to get a handle on what the guy looked like since he was facing the back of the stage. Holy hell did he know how move with his instrument. The music _flowed_ out of him, and Lance was already half in love, but then the drums came in with the bass, and the lights hit the rest of the stage, and the guy turned around, and Lance practically fell off his chair in a gay panic.

            Shiro’s brother was, oh Lance didn’t know, maybe _the sexiest human being he had ever seen?_

            Lean, strong arms impeccably presented by a sleeveless black shirt with a mock turtleneck. Black skinny jeans distressed to high-heaven and practically painted on. Low-heeled short boots—also black. Black hair, slicked back but thick and tall, some of it already falling into his flawless face. Cheekbones and a jawline like cut glass, accented by a shining, holographic highlighter. Black lipstick. Smoky eyeshadow. Industrial ear piercing. Sexy, sparkling, purple Gibson firebird.

            Lance’s heart palpitated.

            The guy stepped up to a mic and took over the lead vocals, too. Not that it would have been _possible_ for Lance to recover, but he wished he had at least _somewhat_ before that dusky baritone hit his ears. He dissociated a little bit, listening to it, absolutely mesmerized by the way this guy _felt_ every note he played. It was…well, damn, it was really hot.

            They had no right to sound as good as they did—some rando oldies cover band playing in a music club that apparently one of them owned. But they _did_. They sounded _amazing_. They sounded like pros.

            Everybody at the table with Lance got sucked in. Maybe not quite the same way he had, but they were all tapping their feet or bouncing their heads, getting into the music that way musicians do. At the end of the song, Pidge cupped her hands around her mouth and let out a loud tongue trill.

            It was pretty much lost under the roar of the crowd.

            The band started their second number as soon as there was a lull.

            “Billy Idol, ‘Rebel Yell,’” Matt shouted, smacking Lance’s shoulder. “Two points!”

            The two of them had made a game of naming the title and artist of any song they heard—on the radio, over the speakers at the mall, during school recitals. Lance might have been able to snatch those two points for himself had he not swallowed his tongue in watching Shiro’s brother slide his fingers down the neck of his guitar.

            Even worse of an embarrassing display, Lance actually squeaked aloud when the guy got to the first of the pronouns in the lyrics and had swapped “she” for “he”.

            “Easy there, Slim Jim,” Pidge chuckled.  

            Lance let out a pathetic groan, covering his face with his hands, groaning louder, then twisting around and thumping his head down on the table.

            “I hate you, Shiro,” he grumbled.

            “What did I do?” 

            Face red, Lance just sat up and glared at him, then flipped back around to face the stage.

            Shiro’s brother played scary in-sync with the purple-haired lady who was on rhythm guitar. He shredded the solo, then practically lured Lance to watery death with the bit that was a vocal break sans guitar. Friggin’ siren. By the end of the song, Lance was hooked—line and sinker. The rest of the audience was, too, pretty much.

            Shiro’s brother huffed this gorgeous little chuckle into his mic, waiting for a break in the cheers before asking, “How’s everybody doing tonight?”

            The cheers rose again in a crazy cacophony. He laughed.

            “Welcome to Blade Base.”

            More cheering. The other musicians on the stage picked at their instruments, making minor adjustments as the guy continued.

            “On drums, you’ve got Kolivan,” he said, gesturing at the man in question who raised his hand in affirmation of the applause he received. “Ulaz on bass.” The bassist plucked a short riff to more applause. “Magic Hands Romelle on keyboard.” She laughed, blowing a couple of kisses. “The stunning Krolia on guitar.” The woman chuckled and shook her head. “I am Keith, we are Luxite, and this…is ‘Paint It, Black’.”

            “The Rolling Stones,” Matt said. “One point.”

            “Mm-hm,” Lance replied while the name _Keith_ echoed across his mind.

            Unsurprisingly, Luxite knocked the number out of the park. That might have been because Lance was hardly paying attention to the music itself or because he was under some kind of spell, but either way it was a treat. At the end of the song, Keith nodded at the crowd.

            “Thank you,” he said.

            The applause lulled, and the other musicians relaxed—Kolivan setting his drumsticks down and Romelle taking a seat behind her keyboards. Keith swung his guitar strap off his shoulder and passed the instrument to Ulaz while Krolia left the stage.

            “We’ve got some special guests in the audience tonight,” Keith said, and Lance’s heart stopped when the guy motioned at their table. “My brother, Takashi, and some of his friends from The New Altea Institute of Music.”

            Most of the audience turned around to see who Keith was talking about. Flushing, Lance ducked, but couldn’t really avoid getting looked at. Shiro smiled and waved. Pidge and Hunk and Matt exchanged puzzled glances with each other. Krolia reappeared on the stage then, carrying a violin and bow. Keith took them, settled the violin under his chin, and Lance’s heart stopped all over again.

            “He’s a _violinist?_ ” He gaped at Shiro.

            Shiro smiled. “If it’s got strings, Keith plays it.”

            Keith pointed his bow at their table.

            “This one’s for you, nerds.”

            He started his performance and Pidge gasped immediately.

            “Oh my god, it’s Paganini,” she said.

            And it was. Caprice No. 24 to be precise—a piece widely regarded as one of the most difficult for solo violin. _Ever_.

            Lance had not been in love before. He was in love _now_.

            He’d always been a sucker for orchestra students. Violinists were particular offenders. There was something special in the passion a violin brought out of its player, how the instrument and the musician melded together, _moved_ together. Keith had been gorgeous with a guitar, but he was a god with a violin. Jesus, the _expression_. Lance was captivated, captured, literally cooking from the inside out. The way Keith closed his eyes. The way his body _became_ the medium for the music. He played the theme almost perfectly.

            Pidge was on top of her chair the second it was over, shouting, “ _Bravissimo!_ ” at the top of her lungs and applauding wildly.

            Lance leaned over to Shiro while the rest of the audience clapped.

            “Why doesn’t he go to New Altea?” he asked.

            “He used to,” Shiro replied.

            Keith’s voice cut in on the mic. “And here’s one for the rest of you.”

            Kolivan hit a couple of beats on the bass drum, everybody else in the band joining in for “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” with Ulaz on vocals. Pidge jigged on top of her chair. Bewildered, Lance stared at the floor.

            The rest of the set proved not only well-played, but well-performed. Lance completely forgot about how stupid he’d found the concept of an oldies cover band because they were just _that good_. Keith caused another gay panic in him when they played Toni Basil’s “Mickey”, then Krolia swapped her and Keith’s electric guitars for acoustic and she sang a haunting “Landslide” that kind of made Lance want to cry. After the song, she gave Keith this sad smile and kissed his forehead and said what looked like, “Love you, baby,” but Lance couldn’t quite tell across the distance and lack of context. That was followed by “Crystal Ball”, then “Jessie’s Girl” but with the lyrics swapped again, and ABBA’s “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” The set was an absolute friggin’ delight.

            Stepping away from the mic for a moment, Keith set down his Gibson with a sense of finality.

            “Thanks for coming out tonight. You’ve been amazing.” He grinned at the applause, pushing his hair—which by then had become this sexy, wild mess—out of his eyes. “We’ve got one last song for you.” He looked to his keyboardist. “Romelle?”

            She nodded, and the stage lights blacked out again. In the darkness, drums and keyboard. Lance knew it immediately. Corey Hart. “Sunglasses at Night”. Two points.

            The first bass line brought the lights back up in a slow rise, and Keith had a pair of shades in his hand at his side. Pidge practically curled up and died.

            “Oh my god, oh my _god_ , ohmy _god_ , _ohmygod_. This is the _greatest_ thing I have _ever_ seen,” she said, shaking her fists in the air.

            Keith brought the sunglasses slowly up to his face in time with the music and put them on. When he sang, Lance curled up a little, too. What right did this guy have to be so talented? Lance might have been pissed that the powers that be had poured so much ability into a single person had he not been too dazzled by that person to think straight.

            Krolia came screaming in on lead guitar, and Pidge let out a gleeful shriek.

            “We gotta go down there! Lance, come with me, come with me!”

            She pushed on his shoulders and he startled back to himself just as she appeared in front of him and tugged him to his feet. Before he was fully conscious, however, she had already led him away from the table, down the steps onto the dancefloor, and into the crowd. Pidge tended to use him like the cow-catcher on the front of a train at concerts, and now was no exception. Slipping behind him, she propelled them both right to the front of the stage.

            Lance dissociated completely then.

            Music did that to him. Especially live music. Especially live music up close. Especially live music up close when the musician was a mega babe. Lance left his body behind and blended with the music.

            He danced with Pidge—who was going absolutely _ham_ —but kept an eye on Keith. Part of blending with the music was blending with the people performing it, and maybe Lance was prone to amateur dramatics, but he _did_ feel connected. Like, _really_ connected. Like, _holy shit I need to get this guy’s number after the show_ connected.

            He wouldn’t be able to live the rest of his life if this was the last time he saw Shiro’s brother.

            Keith.

            Keith, Keith, _Keith._

            Jesus, he was _dying_ inside.

            When the song finished, he threw up his arms and applauded with the rest of the plebs.

            Luxite took their bows to ridiculous, uproarious cheering. Pidge was yelling so loud she probably wouldn’t have a voice tomorrow. Lance just clapped. And clapped. And clapped. His eyes stayed glued to Keith as the guy left the stage with his bandmates. Lance jumped when Pidge slapped him across the chest.

            “That was incredible!” she laughed.

            “Uh-huh,” he replied, blank.

            A terrible grin uncurled on her mouth and she reached up to tap the bottom of his chin. “Don’t drool too much, there, lover boy.”

            Snapping his mouth shut, he scowled at her. “I wasn’t drooling.”

            “And I’m the queen of Spain.”

            “Find your own way through the crowd, then, Thumbelina,” Lance replied.

            He turned on his heel and left her to the mercy of the throng, but she squawked and grabbed hold of the hem of his shirt before he could get too far away. She didn’t let go until they were safely returned to their table. Everybody there was standing up and grabbing their jackets.

            “We’re leaving?” Pidge asked, disappointed.

            Shiro laughed. “No. We’re going back to the green room to say hi.”

            She gasped, snatching her jacket off the back of her chair and linking arms with Matt, ready to go. Shiro looked to Lance, his eyebrows raised, and Lance managed a nod over the hysterical beating of his heart in his ears. _This was it_.

            The four of them followed Shiro to a black door in the far wall with a plastic sign on it that said “Employees Only.” Pidge and Matt hurled rapid-fire assessments of the performance at each other while they wove through the secret hallway on the other side. Lance glanced at Hunk, and was going to ask what he thought, but the guy was all stormy and distracted, and when Hunk was brooding, it was best to let him brood.

            Besides, Shiro had brought them to the door marked Green Room, knocked, and pushed it open.

            This really _was_ it.

            The space was smallish and cozy, lit by low lamps and furnished with leather sofas and armchairs. Framed records and album covers hung in rows across the walls. There was a mini-fridge. A table with food. A plush rug in 70s orange. And Luxite.

            The band had been chatting when Shiro had knocked, and all of them turned to see who it was when he entered, but the chatter continued for the most part—Kolivan and Ulaz by the food table. Romelle on a couch. Across from her, Krolia and Keith.

            Keith.

            Lance had thought for a second that maybe the guy wouldn’t have been as attractive “in person.” That it all would have been a trick of the lights or a flashy persona, but nope. He was as gorgeous in detail as he had been onstage. A grin split those black-lipstick lips and a spark lit his eyes when he saw Shiro.

            “And so the firstborn at last admits to his friends that the prodigal exists,” Keith said, extending his arms with a mischievous smile.

            “I brought a fatted calf, but I left it in the car,” Shiro replied.

            Keith laughed, and the two of them embraced. Lance did not miss the adorable way Keith’s eyebrows pulled together as he tucked his head over Shiro’s shoulder. Lance was so absorbed, he actually jumped when the brothers separated and Shiro turned to face the rest of them, one arm around Keith’s shoulders.

            “Keith, this is Hunk, Pidge, Matt, and Lance. Everyone, this is Keith.”

            “Thanks for coming out,” Keith said.

            Lance just nodded stupidly.

            “Our pleasure,” Pidge said. “For real. We wanted to make fun of you, but damn. I feel like I should bow at your feet.”

            Chuckling, Keith tucked some loose hair behind his ear, and the light glinted off that chrome industrial piercing.

            “I’m not that good,” he said.

            Pidge made a bunch of clipped-off sounds of shock and disagreement. “Oh, I beg to differ, my dude. I danced on my _chair_.”

            Keith laughed again. “Yeah, I saw you guys out there.” His eyes flicked to Lance and he held his gaze—perfect and pointed and violet. This guy’s eyes were _violet_. “You’re a good dancer.” He smiled, small, his teeth capturing his bottom lip.

            “Shiro,” Pidge said, her voice pitching high. “Be a dear and introduce us to the rest of the band.” Grabbing Matt, she gave Shiro a shove and made a move-it gesture at Hunk. The four of them shuffled deeper into the room toward the couches. Lance’s stomach turned over when he looked back at Keith and found that the musician’s eyes had not left him.

            “You play?” Keith asked.

            Lance nodded.

            Keith raised his eyebrows.

            “Oh! Um, trombone? I’m in the Wind Ensemble at New Altea.”

            “Oh yeah?”

            Keith’s eyes trailed appraisingly down Lance’s face to his lips and lingered there a moment before lifting to his eyes again. Keith smiled.

            “You look like you play trombone.”

            Lance had no idea what the hell that was supposed to mean—if it was an insult or a compliment or what, but honestly? He didn’t care.

            “I wish they’d let us dress like this for our concerts,” he said, motioning at Keith’s outfit. The guy glanced down as if he needed to remind himself what he was wearing. When he looked back up, Lance said, “You look great.”

            “Very smooth,” Keith replied, but he’d blushed, so Lance counted that as a win.

            “I mean—” He’d been about to say, “I _do_ play trombone,” but luckily Krolia came up behind Keith and saved Lance from himself.

            “Don’t stop on my account,” she said.

            Lance shook his head. “All good. You were fantastic out there, by the way.”

            She laughed. “Thank you.”

            “How’d you guys meet?” Lance asked.

            “Krolia’s my birth mom,” Keith said.

            Lance started, biting the inside of his cheek, wondering if he’d stepped in it, but Keith continued like it was totally cool.

            “We got in touch after I turned eighteen and found out we were both into music and one thing led to another.” He shrugged, beaming at Krolia. “She and Kolivan and Ulaz used to play together, so the band exists thanks to her, really.”

            Krolia shook her head. “The band belongs to you, baby. Through and through. We’re just the olds lucky enough to still be able to stand while we play.”

            “Except for Kolivan!” Romelle called from the couch.

            Keith and Krolia chuckled.

            “Except for me what?” Kolivan asked, which made them laugh again. “Romelle, except for me _what?_ ”

            Krolia smiled and returned her attention to Keith. “I hate to cut the conversation short, baby, but we should get going if we’re going to make it tonight,” she said. “You okay to leave?”

            Keith nodded. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

            “You got it.” The woman turned to smile at Lance. “Thanks for coming.”

            “My pleasure.”

            Another smile, and she left.

            “Second gig?” Lance asked.

            “Sort of. The two of us are playing for a friend’s wedding. Tonight’s the rehearsal dinner. We’re already late, but that’s beside the point. I’m still not entirely sure how I got roped in.”

            Lance laughed. “Parents.”

            That earned a smile from Keith, and Jesus if it wasn’t the prettiest thing on earth.

            “I won’t keep you,” Lance said, then bit the bullet and just went for it. “But…um…maybe I’ll see you around?”

            He didn’t even have to hold his breath because Keith was already nodding.

            “Yeah. Here, let me give you my phone number.”

            Lance would swear, in that moment, the heavens opened and light poured down and an angelic choir sang the hallelujah chorus. It didn’t even register that he had unlocked and passed Keith his phone until the guy was handing it back to him, the screen open to the messages app.

            “Text me,” Keith said, then disappeared.

            Dazed, smitten, feeling like a silly schoolkid, Lance looked down at the screen. The name at the top said, “Keith” and he’d already sent himself a message from Lance.

            _cute trombonist_ it read, followed by a trumpet emoji.

            Lance chuckled.

            _That’s a trumpet_ he added.

            Keith replied almost immediately:

                        _well you would know ;)_

 

**

 

Lance’s giddy good mood did not go unnoticed the following morning at work. He bounced around the record store, humming along with the music playing over the surround-sound system, dusting the shelves, organizing the stock with a spring in his every movement. With each jingle of the bells over the door, Lance would call out a customer service greeting that was frighteningly sincere.

            Suspicious, Nyma eyeballed him from behind the front counter where she was folding store logo t-shirts and manning the register. Then Lance found a copy of Billy Idol’s _Rebel Yell_ album in the stack of new vinyl trades he’d been sorting. He gasped, and she couldn’t take it anymore.

            “Okay, _spill_ ,” she demanded, slapping her hand on the counter and rattling the memorabilia in the glass display case underneath. “I’m going crazy over here!”

            Lance looked up at her from the floor, beaming, clutching the record to his chest.

            “It’s _perfect_.”

            “Laaance,” Nyma complained.

            He stood up and trotted over to tuck the record into his little cubby under the counter with the other shit he planned to purchase as soon as payday rolled around. Nyma pouted at him.

            “What happened? Who broke you?” 

            Draping himself across the counter, Lance answered in an exaggerated, dreamy voice, “His name is Keith, and I’m in love.”

            “Pics!” Nyma cried. “ _Show me._ Have you stalked him yet?”

            She pushed all the t-shirts aside to clear space for them both to lean their elbows on the counter and stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Lance pulled his phone out and opened Instagram. As far as his research had extended, Keith didn’t have an account, but the band did, so he searched that and scrolled until he hit a picture of the guy in question. It was from the show last night, Keith onstage at Blade Base, the lights catching the purple glitter in the lacquer on his guitar just right.

            “Oh my _god_ ,” Nyma gaped, snatching Lance’s phone out of his hands. “ _This_ guy?”

            Grinning, Lance nodded.

            Nyma scrolled through the feed, shaking her head and clicking her tongue and making little noises of approval at the back of her mouth. “God _damn_. And you _talked_ to him? You didn’t just, like, swoon from a distance?”

            “I have his _phone number_ ,” Lance replied.

            “ _Shut up_.”

            “Scout’s honor.”

            Nyma’s mouth fell open and her eyes rolled back in her head. “Shut up! No! _No!_ ” She laughed as she smacked him across the chest. “Boy’s got game!”

            Lance chuckled, turning pink. He took his phone back and couldn’t help his eyes catching on another picture of Keith in the feed. A different performance, but still at Blade Base. Keith in a pair of black tights and hot pants. Oy.

            “What are you two squealing about?” Rolo asked, parting the beads over the doorway to the backroom as he emerged, lazy smile on his face.

            “Lance is in love,” Nyma replied.

            Rolo just laughed. “Oh yeah? Who with this time?”

            Nyma motioned for the phone, so Lance passed it back, and she flipped it around proudly to show Rolo as he came up to the counter. Much to Lance’s surprise, a spark of recognition hit Rolo’s eyes.

            “Hey, I’ve seen these guys play,” he said. “Luxite, right? Yeah, they’re really good.”

            Lance nodded. “Where did you see them?”

            Rolo shrugged. “Dunno. It was a couple months ago, maybe.” He shrugged, waving a hand around. He wasn’t known for his memory. Or sobriety. “That kid can _play_ , though. I remember that.”

            Blushing, Lance nodded again and took his phone from Nyma to tuck it back in his pocket. He could sense the weight of it there, heavy in holding Keith’s contact info. Lance had debated all night whether to reply that last text or not. In the end, he’d decided to hold off: one, because Keith was rehearsing for a wedding and probably wouldn’t respond, two, because Lance did not want to hurt his chances by overloading the guy straight out the gate. He had done that one too many times not to have learned his lesson by now.

            “You see one of his sets or something?” Rolo asked.

            “Yesterday. At Blade Base. You been there?”

            Rolo shrugged. “Probably.”

            Chuckling, Nyma nudged Lance away so she could go back to folding. He moved, a little reluctant to return to work now that he’d indulged in talking about his new crush, which was always a favorite pastime. Luckily the store had been empty. It would have been super rude to ignore customers like that for a solid five minutes. He’d only just made it back to his piles of new trades when the shop bells jingled and he looked up to greet whoever had come in.

            The words died in his mouth.

            It was Keith.

            _Keith_ had come in.

            He was different without all the makeup, but still really, really ridiculously good-looking. Hair pulled back in an untidy ponytail. Black leather jacket, black leggings, black Def Leppard band tee. Jesus, did the guy only wear black? Even his industrial piercing was black now—a corkscrew with a couple loose silver shapes on the bar, like one of those bead mazes at the doctor’s office.

            “Hey,” he said, locating Nyma behind the counter. “I’m looking for Lance?”

            Eyes wide, Nyma just stuck out her arm and pointed in Lance’s direction. Lance jumped, but recovered in time to hopefully not look like a total idiot as Keith’s gaze turned to him.

            “Thanks,” Keith said and smiled at Nyma before weaving through the aisles of vinyl.

            Lance panicked his whole walk up. Why was Keith here? How did Keith know he’d be here? What did it signify that Keith was here now, and not by accident, but by _choice_ , and had asked for Lance specifically? Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. He’d kind of got the feeling last night that maybe Keith was as interested in him as he was in Keith, but he didn’t know how much of that to chalk up to wishful thinking.

            “Hi,” Keith said.

            “Hi.”

            “Takashi told me where you worked. I hope that’s okay.”

            Lance nodded a little too eagerly. “Totally okay.”

            Keith smiled, and a slight laugh accompanied it. “Good. Obviously, I have my ulterior motive, but I do need to find him a present. Do you have any dad music?”

            “The Jimmy Buffett’s in the back.”

            Keith laughed outright, and the sound was like church bells. Lance could have curled up and died right there in his half-sorted piles of vinyl.

            “Jimmy Buffett would be great, actually.”

            Lance grinned. “Follow me.”

            He led Keith back to what Nyma lovingly referred to as “That Goddamn Parrothead Shrine” in the corner. Rolo’s taste in music was even more expansive than Lance’s, and for whatever reason, he always kept the Jimmy Buffett section well-stocked—not just with CDs and vinyl, but with books and merchandise and plastic leis and Margaritaville tequila, which he’d had to get a special license to sell. Keith’s eyes fell on the massive stuffed parrot hanging from the ceiling.

            “It used to talk, but Nyma took the batteries out,” Lance said.

            “Oh my god.”

            Giggling, Keith sifted through the vinyl on offer, and the practiced motion of his hands tipped Lance off. This was not Keith’s first time in a record store. As if he needed another thing to make him more attractive.

            “I didn’t know Shiro liked Jimmy Buffett,” Lance commented, leaning an elbow on a CD rack.

            “Yeah, well, it’s not something you’d want to broadcast to a school full of music students with bows and reeds up their asses, now is it?” Keith jolted as soon as he’d spoken and looked to Lance with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry.”

            Lance shook his head. “Don’t apologize. It’s the truth.”

            Keith gave a small smile and turned his attention back to the vinyl. Lance let the comment lie. Shiro had said last night that Keith used to go to New Altea, and there was clearly a lot more baggage attached to that than an off-hand answer would suggest. Lance himself had worked his keister off to get in, and he was inclined to agree with Keith. Hoity-toity rich kids who thought they were God’s gift to Beethoven made up a huge percentage of the student body. But there were some good eggs, too.

            A swish of plastic, and Keith pulled an album from the row. _A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean_.

            “Perfect.”

            He spent a second grinning at the ridiculous cover photo, then glanced up at the shelf of tequila and grabbed a bottle of Island Lime. He turned to Lance, looking very pleased with himself. Lance couldn’t help a laugh.

            “What’s the present for?” he asked, following as Keith went to the register to pay.

            “Halloween.”

            “ _Halloween?_ ”

            “It’s a thing,” Keith said. He set the record and tequila on the front counter for Nyma to ring up, digging his wallet out of his back pocket so she could check his ID.

            “Do you want a bag?” she asked.

            “Sure.”

            “Plastic or tote?” She pointed at the wall behind her where the store’s various merch was on display. The Bounty Hunter Music logo came on mugs, coasters, t-shirts, totes, car stickers, all sorts, really. Keith grinned.

            “Oh, definitely a tote.”

            Nodding, Nyma fished one out and rang it up, then passed Keith the card machine so he could pay. She wrapped the tequila bottle in a t-shirt and put that and the record in the bag, saying, “On the house,” when Keith tried to protest.

            He tucked some loose hair behind his ear and smiled. “Thanks.”

            “Sure thing.” She glanced at Lance and did a secret grin, then passed Keith his bag.

            “Now to my ulterior motive,” Keith said, sliding the straps up over his shoulder and turning to Lance. “When is your lunch break and do you want to get coffee with me?”

            Nyma actually gasped. The noise was small and choked-off, but Lance heard it, and boy oh boy, did it illustrate exactly how he felt. He stared at Keith. Keith smiled. Then Lance started nodding. His head bobbed up and down, and he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to get it to stop. Coffee with Keith? Coffee with Keith! Yes to coffee with _Keith._

            “Now,” he said. “My lunch is now. I’ll get my jacket, one second.”

            He bolted to the backroom to grab his stuff and holler at Rolo that he’d be back in an hour. Nyma was still reeling when Lance returned to the counter, and she rolled her eyes back into her skull and mouthed, “Oh my god,” at him. He mouthed back, “I know,” as he went out the door with Keith.

            There was a cute little local place a couple of blocks down the street called Common Grounds, so they walked, and put in their orders, and found somewhere to sit. It wasn’t until Lance had tucked his order number into the metal stand on their table that he returned to his body. With a jolt, he looked at Keith across from him and swallowed. Was this real life?

            “Sorry if I’m coming on too strong,” Keith said. “I just… We didn’t really get a chance to talk last night, and I wanted to get to know you better.”

            Blinking, Lance shook his head. “No—I mean, I’m usually the one who does, so…”

            Keith settled back in his seat with a smile. “Well that makes it easy, doesn’t it?”

            So he _was_ interested.

            “Mm-hm,” Lance squeaked.

            “All right then.” Keith sat up. “Here’s what I know about you so far.” He raised his hand and counted off on his fingers. “Your name is Lance. You play trombone at New Altea. You work in a record store. You’re friends with my brother. An excellent dancer. Oh, and you’re gorgeous. What else should I add to my list?”

            A furious blush swept into Lance’s cheeks and his mouth fell open. Their orders arrived then, and the server put their coffee and sandwiches on the table, which thankfully gave Lance enough time to recover. Keith just chuckled at him.

            “You think I’m _gorgeous?_ ” Lance gawped.

            Keith picked up his mug and smiled around a sip. “I noticed you dancing, didn’t I?”

            Lance didn’t rightfully know what to say. Of course, he’d always considered himself attractive, and he took a lot of pride in his appearance, but to receive a review of “gorgeous” from a guy that looked like _this_ was almost too good to be true.

            “Is this real life?” This time he said it out loud.

            “I’m kind of weak for the whole lean-tall-tan-skin-blue-eyes thing,” Keith said with a self-effacing chuckle.

            Pressing his palms together, Lance held his hands over his heart and looked up at the ceiling. “Thank you, Jesus,” he said.

            Keith snorted, playfully kicking him under the table. “Stop.”

            “Nah, man. Somebody up there likes me.”

            Without missing a beat, Keith replied, “David Bowie. _Young Americans_.”

            Lance gasped. “Oh my god, we should add _albums!_ ”

            “What?”

            “This game Matt and I invented where we name the artist and the title of songs we hear, like, out in the world. There’s a point system. I never thought about adding _albums,_ though. They should be worth two…”

            He got a little distracted, but Keith was smiling this pretty little smile when Lance looked at him again.

            “So how many points am I at?” Keith asked.

            “Well, Bowie wasn’t _playing_ , so technically zero, but for the genius idea you gave me, I’ll award you the value of your response. Three points.”

            “And how many do you have?”

            Lance shrugged. “I’d have to ask Matt. He’s the scorekeeper. But we’ve been playing for like three years now? I think I’m in the low two thousands…”

            Keith chuckled. “Christ. I’ll never catch up.”

            The thought of Keith wanting to be around often enough to catch up had Lance feeling all warm and tingly.

            They talked so much—about music, and Luxite, and the record store, and music again—that the hour was over in what felt like five minutes and neither of them had really had that much to eat. Lance wrapped his sandwich in a couple of napkins to take back to the store or else he’d starve before the end of his shift. Both he and Keith lingered outside the door into Common Grounds.

            “Thanks for the invite,” Lance said.

            “Thanks for helping me find a record,” Keith replied.

            Lance’s mind flashed to that Billy Idol vinyl he’d set aside. “Anytime. Hey—” Keith had nodded and started to walk away, but Lance brought him to stop. “I don’t know what your schedule’s like, but we should do this again. Only longer, and maybe with drinks and dancing.”

            “Maybe like a date?”

            A grin broke across Lance’s mouth and he nodded. “Exactly like a date.”

            “I’d love that.”

            Lance’s heart thudded. “How’s Monday?”

            “Monday’s great.”

            “Great.”

            “Great.”

            Lance laughed. “I’ll text you and we can do details.”

            Keith nodded, and it was time to go, but neither of them moved. They just stood staring at each other like a couple of idiots. Lance was starting to feel like maybe the luckiest guy in the whole damn universe—or _exactly_ the luckiest guy. He broke out of his stupor with a firm nod and drew in a breath, resolved to get back to the record store on time, but then Keith said, “See you Monday, cute trombonist,” and turned to go with a sultry smile.

            “See you,” Lance replied, and stayed exactly where he was to watch Keith walk away because his feet and legs had turned to jelly.

            He was late getting back, but Rolo didn’t notice, and Nyma didn’t care. She had this ridiculous smug look on her face when Lance walked in.

            “How’d it go?” she trilled.

            Lance gave her a double thumbs up.

            “Good. I have a present for you.” She brandished a folded sticky note in her hand.

            “What is it?”

            Lance tried to take it, but she snapped it out of his reach.

            “You owe me,” she said, then let him have it. Written on the little yellow square were four numbers with a dash in the middle.

            “Ten twenty-three?” Lance asked, looking up at her.

            “Keith’s birthday,” Nyma replied. “I scoped it off his license.”

            Lance’s eyes went wide. October twenty-third was _Monday_. Abandoning his sandwich, he scooped Nyma up in an absurd hug and pranced around behind the counter.

            “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he said.

            She laughed. “Just hook me up if he has any hot, single friends.”

            He set her down, pressed a dramatic kiss to her forehead, said, “You’re a goddess,” then grabbed his sandwich and popped the sticky note between his teeth, sweeping out from behind the counter.

            “Where are you going?” Nyma asked.

            “I need better wifi reception,” he said.

            He had a birthday date to plan.

 

As soon as Lance left the record store for the day, he called Shiro.

            “Hello?”

            “Emergency!” Lance shouted, startling a lady walking her dog on the street.

            “What? What happened? Are you okay? Do you need a ride to the hospital?” There was a key jangle and a jacket swish like Shiro was actually getting ready to come pick Lance up and drive him to the ER.

            “What? No, no, no. I’m fine. Well, I’m not _fine_ , I have a date with your brother on Monday and I need help.”

            “Oh.” A pause. “ _OH_.” Another key jangle and jacket swish and what sounded like Shiro sitting down on the couch. “Wait, Lance, Monday is—”

            “His birthday, I know. But I didn’t know when I asked him out, and he said _yes._ I just wanted to know if he’s like a ‘grr I hate my birthday don’t bring it up’ kind of guy. Should I make it a birthday thing? Or will he kill me?” Lance arrived at his bus stop and offered an apologetic smile to the other people already waiting. Talking on the phone while riding or waiting for public transit wasn’t best practice, but he needed advice.

            “Well, don’t take him to Chili’s and have the waitstaff sing to him,” Shiro chuckled. “He’d hate _that_.”

            “Everyone hates that, Shiro.”

            “I don’t,” he replied, sounding genuinely distressed.

            Lance put his face in his hand. “Why does that not surprise me?”

            “It’s fun,” Shiro continued. “Sometimes the whole restaurant joins in, and—”

            “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re seventy-three. We all know this. Now, is Keith a birthday-hater or no?”

            Shiro sighed. “He doesn’t hate his birthday, no,” he said. “No emotional baggage. Like in _Gremlins_ when that one girl hates Christmas because her dad dressed up as Santa and then died in the chimney?”

            “ _Focus_ , Shiro.”

            Lance could _feel_ the petulant dad-stare Shiro did on the other end of the line. His bus showed up, then, so he signaled the driver and scanned his student ID after boarding.

            “He probably didn’t tell you because he hates being ‘that guy.’ He never announces his birthday. He’s not particular about it. We’re doing family stuff to celebrate on Sunday.”

            “So it’s cool if I make Monday, like, a birthday thing?” Lance asked, grabbing one of the handhold loops as the bus picked up speed. “He won’t be mad? Or embarrassed?”

            “I guess that depends on what you do. What are your plans?”

            Lance drew in a deep breath and then laid it all out on the table—dinner at Santiago de Cuba, followed by drinks at Wavy, a favorite dance club of his. Then a campfire up the canyon with smores in place of cake.

            “Wow,” Shiro replied. “Can you take me on this date instead of Keith?”

            “Can you be helpful instead of an ass?”

            He chuckled. “Point taken. I think he’ll like that. Are you going to make him wear a pointy hat?”

            “Of course not, Shiro. I’m trying to be low-key.”

            “You. The tenor trombonist. Low-key.”

            Lance had to laugh at that. Trombone aside, he wasn’t known for subtly. For once, with Keith, that seemed to have worked in his favor.

            “So, it can be a birthday thing, but don’t make a big display?” he asked.

            “Yeah,” Shiro said. “As long as you don’t do anything to deliberately embarrass him, he’ll be fine.”

            “Define ‘deliberately embarrass.’”

            “The disaster that was Matt’s nineteenth birthday,” Shiro replied.

            Lance laughed out loud. “Gotcha, gotcha. Thank you.”

            “Anytime. It’s kind of cool. I get to give brother advice now.”

            “Bye, Grandpa,” Lance chimed.

            “Goodbye, young man,” Shiro replied, doing a fake elderly voice.

            Lance smiled as he hung up and tucked his phone away, but he still didn’t feel entirely at ease. Birthdays were a big deal in his family, and he knew it wasn’t like that for everybody, but he couldn’t get over how Keith hadn’t said _anything_ when Lance had suggested Monday for their date. Like, not even an, “Oh, that’s my birthday.” Just…nothing. It made him hesitant to bring it up at all. But Lance had already bought the Billy Idol record—payday be damned—so he was committed to a course of action one way or another.

            As the bus approached the New Altea campus just outside the city center, he pushed the button for his stop and hopped off with a thank you to the driver. Lance lived in Tower 1, the student dorms at the back. There were supposed to be multiple towers, hence the number, but the demand for housing at the school was pretty low, so they’d never been built. Lance still thought it was hilarious.

            A Saturday evening walk through the campus was a quiet one—all the sparkly white stone and glass buildings closed for the weekend and few students around. With the autumn sunset and some of the trees still turning and dropping their leaves, the place looked like a postcard. Sometimes, Lance still couldn’t believe he _went_ here.

            At Tower 1, he rode the elevator the sixteen flights to the two-bedroom apartment he shared with Hunk. They’d been roomies since getting paired together by the computer freshman year. Another lucky happening. Maybe Lance was a lot luckier than he thought.

            Pidge pounced on him the second he came through the door.

            “ _Lance_ ,” she said, and her voice was all scratchy from screaming so much at Blade Base the night before, “please tell this _madman_ —” She gestured over her shoulder at Matt, who was sitting on the couch with his hands in the air. “—that—”

            “I never said Christina Aguilera was better than Britney Spears,” Matt interrupted.

            Pidge whirled around. “Yes you did!”

            “No, ‘What a Girl Wants’ is better than ‘…Baby One More Time’ is what I said.”

            “ _Blasphemy!_ ” Pidge shrieked, but it barely came out at all, hissing into nothingness on her wasted vocal chords. Lance chuckled, sliding past her to go inside.

            “Matt, my friend, I’m sorry, but you’re wrong,” Lance said, swinging his backpack down and setting it on a chair at the table. The common space in the apartment was really just one big room, divided into “kitchen” and “living room” by the border between the carpet and the tile.

            “Ha!” Pidge squeaked.

            “But,” Lance continued, taking off his shoes, “I will say that ‘Lady Marmalade’ is better than ‘…Baby One More Time.’”

            “Woo!” Matt pumped both fists in the air, and Pidge complained at them both.

            “Where’s Hunk?” Lance asked.

            “His room,” Pidge replied, then cleared her throat.

            Lance frowned. “Okay. You guys order pizza yet?”

            “It’s in the oven,” Matt said, showing Lance the pizza tracker page.

            Nodding, Lance craned his neck to see down the hall. Hunk’s door was shut, but the light was on, warm and yellow under the gap at the bottom. Lance looked back at Matt and Pidge and raised his eyebrows. Both of them shrugged.

            “I’ll see if he wants to eat with us,” Lance said.

            He grabbed his backpack and his shoes and tucked them away in his room before approaching Hunk’s door and knocking.

            “Yeah?” said Hunk’s muffled voice from inside.

            “It’s me. Can I come in?”

            Silence. Then, “Sure.”

            Lance opened the door and found Hunk at his desk, stooped and studying a whole mess of books and papers. The bed was unmade, and there was a pile of half-folded laundry at the foot. Hunk’s room was usually pretty tidy. It only ever got like this when he was stressed out. Lance shut the door behind him and plopped himself on the bed. Neither of them said anything for a second.

            “You doing okay, man?” Lance asked.

            Hunk drew in a deep breath from his nose and let it out slow. “Just…school.”

            “Semester picked up for you?”

            “Yeah, and…I don’t know. We’re graduating this year. I guess I’ve just been thinking a lot about what that’s going to mean.”

            Lance had been deliberately avoiding the subject himself. He gave Hunk a grim nod.

            “I want to feel like I made the right choice,” Hunk continued. “Studying music.”

            Lance laughed. He wondered about that every day. What did one do with a Bachelor of Music in tenor trombone when playing in the wind symphony inevitably didn’t work out? He probably should have thought about that before putting his all into attending New Altea, but it was three years too late for that. He offered Hunk a smile.

            “I get it,” he said. “It’s a crazy stupid thing we do, but—for what it’s worth—I think you did. Make the right choice, I mean.” To lighten the mood, he pressed both his hands over his heart and said, “Voice of an angel,” in a Southern accent.

            Hunk chuckled. “Thanks, man.”

            “You want pizza?”

            “I’ll come out when it gets here,” Hunk replied. “I want to study a little more.”

            “Cool.” Lance hopped up and moved to exit. “I’ll keep the Holts quiet.” 

            “Good luck.”

            Laughing, Lance gave his roommate one last thumbs up before heading out the door. Back in the living room, he found Pidge and Matt placing bets on when the pizza tracker would move to the next stage. Pidge was the ultimate winner by the time the grub arrived, and she refused to let Matt live it down. Lance wondered how to bring up the Keith situation, but then Hunk—bless him—provided the perfect opportunity when he made an appearance for pizza.

            “You guys wanna go see _Rear Window_ at the Orpheum on Monday?” he asked. “They’re doing an Alfred Hitchcock festival for Halloween.”

            “Oh, _hell_ yeah,” Pidge replied, nearly choking on her pizza. “Obviously. When is _Psycho_ playing?”

            “Uhhh…” Hunk scrolled on his phone for a second. “Friday.”

            “Rad.” She high-fived Matt. “Let’s wear our Norman Bates and Mother costumes.”

            “Lance, you in?” Hunk asked.

            “I can’t on Monday,” Lance replied.

            Suddenly, Pidge was right in his face.

            “Why?” she asked.

            He hated himself for blushing. “I have a date.”

            “Ooh, do you now?” Matt wiggled his eyebrows.

            “With who?” Hunk asked, taking a piece of pizza and sitting down next to Lance, actually being nice because he truly was an angel. 

            “With Keith,” Lance replied. “Shiro’s brother. From Luxite.”

            At once, Pidge collapsed, throwing herself to the ground. Her arms smacked so hard against the floor that Lance thought she’d hit her head.

            “Oh my god,” she said—a whisper on her lost voice. “You’re kidding me.”

            Lance glared at her. “I’m not.”

            “I don’t believe you. Receipts or it didn’t happen.”

            “Why is that hard to believe? He gave me his phone number! He came into the record store today!”

            Pidge was all up in his face again in a flash. “He came into the _record store?_ ”

            Lance hesitated. “Yes…?”

            “Did you tell him you worked there?” Matt asked.

            “No. He asked Shiro—”

            _Bam!_ Pidge was on the floor again. This time, though, she kicked her feet and pressed her hands to her face and squealed like a stuck pig. The sound was extra horrifying for her being hoarse.

            “This is the greatest day of my life,” she said.

            “You could bring him to the movie if you want?” Hunk suggested. “That might be fun.”

            “It’s his birthday, actually, so I’ve kind of got this big idea planned?”

            Pidge had been halfway to sitting up, but she collapsed again, this time into Lance’s lap. He jumped, nearly dropping his slice of pizza on her face.

            “ _Lance_ ,” she groaned. “You’re going out on his _birthday?!_ ”

            He hesitated extra. “…Yes…?”

            She actually looked like she might cry. A ridiculous fake sob keened out of her throat and she went limp, which gave Lance a bit of trouble as she shoved her off. She giggled in a mess on the floor for a second before sitting up, wiping her eyes, and retrieving her pizza.

            “Oh, prayer hands emoji,” she said.

            “Did you just say ‘prayer hands emoji’ out loud?”

            “Shut _up_. I’m exhausted. And you almost put me in my grave with this shit.” Shaking her head, she bit into her pizza.

            “Seriously, though, man, that’s awesome,” Matt said. “He’s a hell of a musician.”

            “Ooo,” Pidge gasped, whacking Lance’s upper arm unnecessarily. “You should ask him to come have a jam session with us!”

            “What the hell kind of jam session are we supposed to have with two trombones, a bassoon, a violin, and a vocalist?” Lance replied.

            “He could play bass,” Pidge replied, indignant. “Shiro said he plays anything with strings.”

            “Does that include Lance’s heart?” Matt asked, batting his eyelashes.

            Lance picked a pepperoni off his pizza and flicked it at him.

            “Lance! The deposit!” Hunk cried. He snatched the pepperoni out of midair before it could land on the carpet.

            Legitimately impressed, Matt applauded. “Mom-friend ninja.”

            “When you need ibuprofen or a tissue, there he is in the shadows: mom-friend ninja.” Pidge attempted a dramatic movie preview voice that was again rendered null and void by her hardly having a voice in the first place.

            The pair of them started pitching spec scripts for an expansive series of Mom-Friend Ninja films. Hunk settled in to listen with a smile. The Holts were good for a lot of things, but one of the big ones was a welcome distraction. Lance was quiet, too, contributing his opinion on plot points when asked, but for the most part caught up in his own thoughts about Keith and Monday. He’d need to stop by his parents’ house tomorrow and see if he could borrow the hatchback and some of their campfire supplies, and make a reservation at one of the sites in the canyon. Should he maybe call ahead for the restaurant, too, or would they be okay because it was Monday? Wavy wouldn’t be a problem, but _driving_ after drinking at Wavy might be—especially up the winding canyon road. He might have to rethink that bit…

            Matt and Pidge took off for home after midnight and a rousing couple of rounds of Scattergories. Lance locked the door behind them, then turned to face Hunk, who was meticulously placing all the game pieces in the box.

            “Any…um….any mom-friend insights on Keith?” he asked.

            Hunk chuckled, looking up from the box. “What do you mean?”

            Lance shrugged. “I don’t know, man. He just…feels a little bit out of my league.”

            “Do you need the ‘League Rhetoric is Fake’ lecture again?” Hunk asked. He raised an eyebrow and made a true mom-friend face.

            Peeling himself off the door, Lance drew in a deep breath and shook his head. He came and sat on the carpet in front of Hunk. “No,” he said.

            “I think he’s made it pretty clear that he’s into you, right?”

            Lance nodded. There really wasn’t any other way to interpret how forward Keith had been. Lance knew that, but the more he thought about the guy, the more he’d started to wonder if maybe it was all a cruel joke and Ashton Kutcher was going to jump out at some point and yell, “Punked!” He explained as much to Hunk.

            “Look,” Hunk said, putting the lid on the Scattergories box. “I don’t know this guy. So, I can’t tell you anything about him. But I _do_ know you.”  He gave Lance a patient smile. “Be yourself and see what happens. Don’t try to be whatever you think he wants you to be.”

            Lance opened his mouth, but Hunk cut him off.

            “Okay?” he said, raising that stern eyebrow again.

            Letting his breath out, Lance nodded. It was solid advice. “Okay,” he said with a nod.

            Hunk smiled. “Tell me what you have planned.”

 

**

 

Sunday nearly slipped away in a daze of anticipatory preparation, but then Lance was getting ready to shut the trunk on the hatchback and leave his parents’ house after dinner when he remembered that he hadn’t messaged Keith yet. He should probably give the guy _some_ kind of heads up.

            “Shit,” he said, digging his phone out in a hurry and shooting off a quick text.

                                                                        _Is 6:00 okay for tomorrow?_

            He was such a moron. Everything in order but the most important part. Shaking his head at himself, he shut the trunk—now full of firewood and smores stuff and blankets and camping chairs. His phone buzzed.

                        _for sure_

_what are we doing_

Lance couldn’t stifle his grin.

                                                                                    _That’s a surprise_

                                                   _But you should definitely wear layers_

                                                                              _It’ll be hot and cold_

_katy perry_

_That’s not how the game works_

_one point_

_That’s not how the game WORKS_

_come on I’ll never catch up_

            “What are _you_ smiling at?”

            Lance jumped, spinning to find Veronica standing in the doorway from the garage into the house. She was leaning against the frame with a smug expression on her face like she’d been there for a while. Scowling, Lance locked his phone and shoved it into his back pocket.

            “Nothing,” he replied.

            “Aw, that’s no fun, Lancey-Lance.” She trotted down the steps and blocked him from getting into the driver’s side of the car. “Share with the class.” Her hand appeared palm-up in front of him and she wiggled her fingers.

            “No.”

            “Pay the ferryman, Lance, or you’ll never cross.”

            It was a known fact that Veronica was the wrestling champion of all the McClain children, Luis included. Lance had no way to get around her without getting suplexed into the ground if he didn’t show her his phone. With a defeated sigh, he passed the device over, unlocked. Veronica chuckled maliciously. The light of the screen reflected off her glasses as she scrolled.

            “He liiikes you,” she trilled.

            “Shut up.”

            “Cute trombonist, huh?”

            She gave him this wicked smile, so he snatched his phone out of her hands and glared. Laughing, she stepped to the side. Lance pulled open the door and got into the car, but she hooked her elbows over the frame and kept him from closing it.

            “So, when do we get to meet him?” she asked.

            “I’ve known him for three days.”

            “Right? I’m surprised you’re not already planning your wedding.”

            Sighing, Lance rested his forehead against the steering wheel. “And Mom wonders why I don’t tell you guys about my love life anymore.”

            Even just asking to borrow the car had been a veritable nightmare. Lance had tried to be secret about it and talked to his mom while they were setting the table, but friggin’ Eagle Ears Marco had overheard. The rest of dinner had been an absolute hellscape of jabs and teasing.

            To his surprise, though, Veronica didn’t respond to the complaint. Lance lifted his head to look at her and found her expression fairly solemn.

            “Have fun, okay?” she said, a smile peeking through.

            He smiled back. “You got it.”

            “And don’t forget: cap it before you tap it.”

            He yanked the car door from under her elbows and yelled, “Good _byeee_ , Veronica!”

            Giggling, she stood in the garage and waved at him like a goddess of destruction while he backed out. At the end of the driveway, he paused to shake his head at her and flip her off. She returned in kind, then blew him a kiss. Lance mimed catching it and put it on his cheek. She placed both her hands over her heart, then yelled, “Drive safe, dimwit!”

 

**

 

Keith tried to weasel hints out of Lance all day Monday. He kept texting guesses for what they were doing, and every time Lance’s screen lit up, that idiot-smile found its way onto his mouth. He had his phone propped up on his music stand during rehearsal for Wind Ensemble—a terrible idea, really—but the flutes happened to be practicing their part when a notification came through.

                        _the art museum_

_Nope_

_if I get it will you tell me_

_What do you think?_

_mean_

_clay pigeon shooting_

_That’s it, Keith_

_You’ve cracked the code_

_We’re going clay pigeon shooting_

_really?_

_No!_

_mean_

“Is that Keith?” Matt whispered, leaning over and nodding at Lance’s phone.

            He was the ensemble’s only bass trombonist. Lance was last chair for tenor—because rich schmucks who’d had expensive teachers all their lives were impossible to compete with—and they’d sat next to each other for almost the entire time they’d gone to New Altea. It was the one consolation Lance had for being dubbed the “worst” tenor trombone player in the ensemble.

            “Jam session?” Matt’s upper lip curled under and he pulled it above his teeth as he nodded.

            “No.”

            “You’re no fun at all.”

                        _graverobbing_

“I’m not trying to scare him away,” Lance replied, chuckling at Keith’s text and typing out a _Nada_ in reply.

            “He’s already met us.”

            “Barely.”

            “An awful lot of chatter, gentlemen, for a section that doesn’t come in for another sixteen measures,” Coran called from the podium. He raised his eyebrows and made his signature scary director face. Matt pretended to zip his lips shut. Lance nodded.

            The second Coran’s attention was back on the flutes, however, Matt leaned over and whispered again.

            “Jam session. You. Playing with Keith. Think about it.”

                        _beach volleyball_

Lance would have been lying if he’d said his heart didn’t stutter at the thought of getting to play alongside Keith. What a massively appealing proposition that was.

                                                            _That would require a beach_

he replied.

 

The address Keith gave for pick-up was on the outskirts of the city in an older area everybody called the Avenues. Once upon a time, the narrow multi-story Craftsman houses had belonged to individual families, but they’d long since been sectioned and split into separate apartments. The streets were hilly, the trees tall and old, each little house unique. Keith’s was white with green trim and a big porch, but he lived in the basement, so he probably didn’t get to use it much.

            Lance parked on the street and went around the back to the basement entrance. His heart started to beat pretty hard on the walk down the stairs—nervous, but excited.

            Krolia answered after he knocked.

            “Oh, wow,” she said. “A come to the door guy. I thought you were FedEx. Come on in.”

            Motioning with her head, she moved away from the door with a smile. Lance went inside and was immediately struck by the amazing smell. The air was thick, almost hazy, and he noticed an incense burner on the counter. He couldn’t help glancing around the rest of the space—a kitchen at this end, a living room at the other, a hallway branching off at the back. The rooms were cluttered, but purposefully so, like every little plant and knickknack had its place. A portion of the living room had been completely taken over by heavy-duty plastic containers and various instruments on stands.

            “What kind of incense are you burning?” Lance asked. “I like it.”

            “Cedar and sage,” Krolia replied. “You want some?”

            “Stop offering the FedEx guy incense!” Keith shouted, appearing at the entrance to the hallway, laughing and shaking his head. “You don’t have to—Lance.”

            He. Looked. Stunning.

            Lance shouldn’t have been surprised—he’d seen Keith in full concert regalia—but his heart thudded anyway. Keith had left his hair down. This was the first time Lance had seen it that way and, holy shit, he wanted to run his fingers through it. A black bomber jacket with the NASA logo over the heart, red fitted crew neck sweatshirt underneath. He had on the tights and hot pants combo as well, and Lance did another (mental) “Thank you, Jesus.” The lasting impression, though, was the way Keith’s eyes had lit up at seeing him. 

            “You didn’t have to come to the door,” Keith said, smiling. He entered the kitchen, and Lance noticed he was wearing false eyelashes and died all over again.

            “Sorry I’m not the FedEx guy,” he replied, sounding reasonably smooth.

            Keith laughed. “Are these layers okay?”

            Lance nodded. “Perfection.”

            A sly smile let him know that Keith had taken his meaning. “Shoes?”

            “I’d opt for comfort.”

            Keith narrowed his eyes, squinting at Lance like he was trying to glean some sort of clue from that. Lance just smiled, his lips pressed together. As soon as Keith had moved away, he added, “You might also want a hat.”

            “You’re killing me,” Keith replied, stomping back to the hallway.

            Krolia chuckled. She’d taken a seat at the kitchen table and slung an elbow over the backrest to look at Lance. “Where are you going?”

            “Uh-uh. Nice try. I know he can hear me.”

            She burst out laughing and nearly drowned out the muffled, “Damn it!” that was Keith just out of sight in the hall.

            “Ooh, I like him, baby,” Krolia called. “He’s gonna give you a run for your money.” She grinned at Lance. His heart soared at having made the good graces of at least one parental figure.

            Shoving a beanie into his jacket pocket, Keith returned in a pair of black high tops. He tried to grumble past Krolia, but she caught his wrist and pulled him back and made him give her a kiss goodbye.

            “Let me know when you’re on your way home.”

            “Bye, Mama.”

            “Bye, baby. Nice to see you again, Lance.”

            “You too,” he said, raising a hand in a wave as he followed Keith out the front door. He definitely checked out the guy’s butt as he went up the stairs in front of him.

            “When do I get to know where we’re going?” Keith asked.

            “When we get there,” Lance replied. He passed him to lead the way to the car.

            “You’re annoying,” Keith said around a smile.

            The hatchback didn’t have a working clicker, so Lance had to put the key in the door to unlock it. He plopped himself in the driver’s seat just as Keith opened the passenger side. Keith hesitated, probably because a newspaper-wrapped record with a goofy string bow was lying on his seat. Like an idiot, Lance had forgotten to wrap the gift while at his parents’ house, but Hunk had helped him improvise, so the thing didn’t look half bad.

            “What is this?” Keith asked.

            Lance leaned over the console between the two seats to give him a smile out the door. “Happy birthday,” he replied.

            Keith’s lips parted a little in surprise, and his eyes went wide. The expression was outrageously adorable and innocent for someone who presented himself to the world as a sexy badass.

            “Who told you?” Keith grinned, picking up the present and getting into the car.

            “I have my sources,” Lance replied. Keith would probably think it was Shiro, and Lance was more than happy to let that sleeping dog lie.

            “Is it vinyl?” Keith asked. He had the record propped up on his knees and he grinned over at Lance like a kid on Christmas.

            “Maybe.”

            “Is it Jimmy Buffett?”

            “Why do you like to guess so much?” Lance laughed, starting the car and pulling onto the street.

            “Is it Dolly Parton?”

            “No—wait, you like _Dolly Parton?_ ”

            “I _love_ Dolly Parton,” Keith replied. Lance could hardly believe his ears, even as Keith sang the first line of “Jolene” at the top of his lungs. Jesus, his voice was so good. Lance had forgotten—or maybe it was hard to remember that part of his performance because the guitar and violin playing had decimated everything else.

            “You’re kind of a weirdo, huh?” Lance asked with a grin.

            Keith smacked him and pointed a finger in his face. “Don’t disrespect Dolly.”

            “Will you just open the present already?” Lance laughed.

            Sitting back in his seat, Keith eyed Lance for a second, a smile hidden under a pair of pursed lips. He turned his attention to the record, though, and untied the string before carefully tearing the newspaper along the points where it was taped.

            “Jesus, you don’t have to be so meticulous about it,” Lance said. He was getting nervous now. What if Keith already had the album?

            “Let me do it how I want,” Keith replied.

            He unpicked all the seams and let the record sit on his lap, still totally covered, for one last moment of anticipation. Then he flipped the newspaper away with a flourish. Lance’s breath stuck in his throat.

            “Oh my god,” Keith whispered. Reverent almost, his fingers ran along the top edge of the album cover. “It’s _gorgeous_.”

            “You don’t have it already?”

            Keith shook his head. “I don’t have any Billy Idol, actually. _Thank_ you.” He turned to Lance, so Lance glanced over to give him a smile.

            “You’re welcome,” he said.

            Keith folded the newspaper and tucked it into his pocket, eyes still glued to the record. He propped it up on his knees again. “If I’d known you knew it was my birthday, I would have made better guesses for what we were doing.”

            “Oh? Like what?”

            “Like a magic show.”

            “ _What?_ ”

            “Oh, no, wait—did you hire a clown?”

            Lance snorted so hard he almost choked. “You are _terrible_ at this.”

            “No clown then?”

            “No clown.”

            “Damn.”

            “Do you _want_ a clown?”

            Keith sat up and pulled his seatbelt away from his chest so he could lean over and get his face close to Lance’s. “If I say yes, will you find me one?” he asked, batting those long, long eyelashes.

            Lance laughed and forced his eyes to stay on the road. He was so, so tempted to steal a quick kiss, but he’d probably crash the car.

            “Maybe next year,” he replied.

            Keith plopped back in his seat with a huff that was totally fake. “Fine.”

            “What?” Lance chuckled. “You think you can flirt with me and get whatever you want?”

            Oh boy, that challenge was a mistake.

            Keith sat up again, but in this slow, sexy, calculated way. He leaned even closer over the console and brushed a piece of Lance’s hair back behind his ear, sparking a shiver.

            “Is that not how the game works?” Keith purred.

            Lance swallowed.

            “Tell me where we’re going.”

            He _almost_ broke. Keith _almost_ had him, but he refused to give the guy the satisfaction—or set a precedent, for that matter. Lance wasn’t keen to get talked into jumping off a bridge or something later.

            “No,” he said, and the genuine huff as Keith plopped back in his seat made him laugh.

            The guy pretended to pout for the rest of the drive to the restaurant, and Lance let him, grinning the whole time. If he wanted to play stubborn, fine. He’d find Lance more than up to the task. By the time they pulled into the parking lot for Santiago de Cuba, Keith still hadn’t made a sound outside of the occasional dramatic sigh, but as soon as Lance turned the car off, Keith flipped around to face him.

            “I’ve decided I don’t need a clown, because I’m already riding with one,” he said.

            Lance’s mouth fell open in mock offense, so Keith added a sad, “Wah wah wah waaah,” and pantomimed playing the trombone. Lance’s mouth fell open even wider, and he pushed Keith’s hands away from his mouth.

            “You’re evil.”

            “Help, police, there’s a clown in this car,” Keith replied, pushing open his door and sliding out like a damsel in distress.

            “Do you _want_ me to kill you?”

            “Help, police, there’s a killer clown in this car.”

            Shaking his head, laughing in spite of himself, Lance got out of the vehicle and swept around to the passenger side, then offered Keith a hand up. Keith took it, so Lance pulled him to his feet, and then sort of, just…didn’t let go. Keith smiled at him, linking their fingers together.

            “Pretty smooth for a band kid,” he said.

            “Well, I _do_ play trombone.”

            There. Now he didn’t have to hold onto that stupid line for forever. It got a laugh out of Keith, though he shook his head and said, “I take it back.”

            But he didn’t take his hand back, keeping their fingers interlaced as Lance led him around to the restaurant’s entrance and opened the door.

            “Oh, a clown _and_ a gentleman,” Keith cooed as he slipped inside. “Won’t mother be impressed.”

            Benita, the seating hostess, recognized Lance the instant he came through the door and shouted, “ _They’re here!_ ” over her shoulder at the chef and the rest of the waitstaff. Grinning, she grabbed a couple of menus and gestured for them to follow her to the corner booth Lance had called to reserve. A thick patterned tablecloth covered the table, along with extra candles and a spray of white orchids in a blue pot. Lance had said “special occasion” and they had outdone themselves. 

            “Thanks, Benita,” he said as they sat and she handed them the menus.

            She just winked and slipped away to the kitchen.

            “Wow…” Keith said, looking a little stunned as he shed his jacket. They kept the place ridiculously warm in the cooler months. “Impressed indeed.”

            “Hey, I impressed one mom today, so don’t be too hard on me.”

            Keith hummed an appreciative note. “And Krolia’s the tougher nut to crack,” he said, opening his menu. “ _Mom_ mom would love how upright and respectable you are. Probably knit you a sweater on the spot.”

            “Who says I’m upright and respectable?”

            Lifting his eyes from the menu, Keith smiled slyly. “Is that a bid for a ‘bad boy’ label?”

            Lance chuckled. “I know I study trombone at New Altea, but I also go dancing on the weekend and work in a record store where my boss is high sixty percent of the time. I’d say it evens out.”

            “Are we going dancing tonight?”

            “We _were_ , and then I rethought the fact that it’s a Monday.”

            Their waitress arrived as Keith laughed. She poured them two glasses of water, then clapped a hand on Lance’s shoulder and smiled at Keith.

            “Waitress spiel,” she said to him. “I’m Aleja, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Is there anything I can get you besides water?” She glanced at Lance to include him in the last bit. Lance looked to Keith and raised his eyebrows.

            “Water’s great,” Keith replied.

            “Same,” Lance said.

            Aleja nodded. “Water it is. I already know what this one wants.” She gestured at Lance with her head. “You ready to order, or do you need a little more time with the menu?”

            Keith folded his menu closed and looked up at her with a mischievous smile. “Chef’s choice,” he said. “Surprise me.”

            “Oo, you got it.”

            “Will you bring us some shrimp croquettes, too?” Lance put in.

            “Of course. Back soon.” With a smile, Aleja left the table.

            “Do you come here a lot?” Keith asked.

            “My parents are friends with the owners, so our families grew up together,” Lance replied. “We eat here all the time. I promise, unbiased, the food is fantastic, though.”

            It was. So was the conversation. Keith asked Lance about his family and kept him talking through the appetizer and into the main course. Granted, getting Lance to talk about his fellow McClains was easy, but Keith actually seemed interested, so that was refreshing. As soon as there was an opportunity, however, Lance shifted the focus off himself.

            “What about you, though?” he asked.

            “Like, my family?”

            “Yeah. Do you like living with your birth mom?”

            Keith nodded. “It’s good. My parents kind of…pushed me out of the nest a few years ago, and Krolia was looking for a roommate.”

            “It’s awesome that you have a relationship with her.” Lance hoped he wasn’t pushing too hard, but he _was_ curious.

            Unfortunately, Keith read him like a book. “What? You want the tragic backstory?”

            Lance’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, no—I didn’t mean—”

            Keith waved a hand. “Krolia and my birth dad were really young when she got pregnant. They wanted to stay together, but he died right after I was born and Krolia was, like, fifteen, so she knew she couldn’t raise me on her own. She gave me up, and my parents adopted me. I asked to meet her as soon as I turned eighteen, and we just…clicked.”

            “Do your parents like her?”

            The face Keith made was hard to read. “They do. But they’re also not happy with some of my life choices as of late, and I think they place some of the blame on her.”

            “What life decisions are those?”

            Keith’s eyes flashed, so Lance added, “If you don’t mind my asking?”

            “Nosy,” Keith said, fishing.

            “Just interested in the real stuff,” Lance replied.

            Head tilted to the side, Keith looked at him appraisingly. His brows drew together slightly, and his eyes narrowed, but the expression was soft. Keith pulled in a deep breath and let it out through his nose. His eyes flicked to his lap, then back up to Lance.

            “I dropped out of New Altea,” Keith replied, “started a rock band, got involved in all the things that go along with that, so on, so forth. I was supposed to be Shiro Mark Two—This Time with Violin—and I am…not. It’s been hard for my parents to come to terms with that.”

            Lance nodded. “Gotcha.”

            “I’m very much the black sheep. There’s a reason Takashi didn’t tell you about me.”

            “What changed?”

            Keith shrugged. “That would be a question for him.”

            The conversation turned to more casual things then—Lance’s time at New Altea, high school for both of them, work. Lance learned that Keith taught music for a living, like a private tutor for fancy rich kids whose parents wanted them to be the next Mozart on the violin.

            “I also teach guitar at that little music store on fourth and fourth. It doesn’t pay as well, but the clients are way better.”

            Lance laughed. “Yeah, I can imagine. That’s awesome. I bet you’re an amazing teacher.”

            Shrugging, Keith smiled at the compliment. “I try not to make it horrible.”

            “Maybe you should teach me.”

            “Oh yeah? And what would you like to learn?” A grin curled the corners of Keith’s mouth and he leaned his elbows on the table to prop his chin in his hands.

            Plenty. Everything. Whatever Keith was willing to teach him, in any subject, and not strictly in an academic sense.

            To Lance, Keith seemed not only gorgeous and worldly, but also like he was living a life closer to the one Lance wanted for himself. Maybe it was Keith’s sense of contentment. The guy was perfectly happy teaching stringed instruments to children and playing with his cover band on the weekends. To be as gifted as he was and not feel the pressure to “make it big” or whatever was a trait Lance hadn’t realized he envied until that moment. _He_ had always pushed himself to be the best. And had pretty much failed at every turn.

            “Guitar,” he said after a moment’s thought. “That way I can finally stop lying to customers at the record store.”

            Keith laughed. “Okay.”

            “Really?”

            The guy shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Sounds like fun.”

            Lance blinked, staring at Keith, certain he had misheard. Keith chuckled again, and suddenly Lance was jumping, his entire body going electric, as Keith’s foot found his ankle under the table and brushed against it. Keith smiled.

            “Gives me an excuse to spend more time with a cute trombonist,” he said.

            Why did this boy make him go all gooey? Not that Lance was known for being “put together” when it came to interacting with people he found attractive, but this was out of control. As was the dopey smile that crept onto his face while he nodded. And the blush that joined it when Keith’s foot skimmed his ankle again.

            “I’ll hold you to that,” Lance said.

            Keith grinned. “I’m counting on it.”

 

Aleja tried to talk them into dessert, but Lance was insistent that he had dessert covered, so of course that meant Keith tried to guess what it was the whole drive to the canyon.

            “Cake.”

            “No.”

            “Cheesecake.”

            “No.”

            “Cupcakes.”

            “No.”

            “Pie.”

            “No.”

            “Lemon bars.”

            “No.”

            “Cake.”

            “ _No._ ”

            “Are you sure it’s not cake?”

            Lance laughed, shaking his head and officially taking a right at the mouth of the canyon. The turn distracted Keith momentarily as he ducked to look out the window at the sloping mountainside. Up here, the trees had long since dropped all their leaves, so the mountain face was all granite and bear aspens and evergreens. The view was pretty, but kind of tough to see in the fading light.

            “Is it smores?”

            Though Lance was loath to reinforce the whole guessing thing, the way Keith turned from the window to look at him, so _absolutely_ sure he was right, a hopeful expression on his face, had him buckling—against better judgement.

            “Yes,” he said.

            “ _Really?_ ”

            “Mm-hm.”

            “ _Ha!_ ”

            Clapping once, Keith threw his arms up and cheered. Then he rolled down his window, stuck his head out, and hollered into the cold canyon air. The sound probably echoed for miles.

            For a split second, Lance wondered if he really knew what he was getting himself into.

            Keith pulled his head back inside the car and plopped into his seat with an exhilarated laugh. His nose and cheeks had turned slightly pink from the wind, his face bright. He looked at Lance with a smile. Lance couldn’t help smiling back.

            “Are you gonna build me a fire?” Keith asked.

            “Hell yeah,” Lance replied. “I wasn’t forced into six years of Boy Scouting for nothing.”

            “You were a _Boy Scout?_ ”

            Chuckling, he nodded, and Keith gasped and pressed his hands over his heart as he pushed back into the seat.

            “Could you _get_ any cuter?”

            Lance’s heart swelled. He stifled an idiot-smile the rest of the way up the canyon to the campsite he’d reserved. It was basically dark by the time they got there, so he flipped the hatchback’s lights to the permanent ON setting and made sure to point them down the trail. Then he hopped out of the car, and Keith followed him to the trunk.

            “Give me something to carry,” Keith said.

            “You want firewood or food?”

            Lance hefted a grocery bag full of marshmallows into the air, and Keith gave him a flat look. Pushing him out of the way, Keith grabbed two bundles of firewood and hauled them up like they didn’t weigh anything. Lance offered a low whistle.

            Looking back over his shoulder, Keith smirked as he dropped the firewood by the pit and asked, “What?”

            “Those arms aren’t only for show, huh?”

            “Is that what passes for flirting on your home planet?” Keith asked, returning to the car and grabbing the camping chair pack and another thing of firewood.

            Lance grinned. “Is it working?”

            “Are you gonna help?” Keith replied, but there was a smile pinned underneath.

            The rest of the stuff was pretty light—blankets and smores ingredients and roasting sticks and lighter fluid—so Lance scooped it all into a pile and carried it from the hatchback to the picnic table at the campsite. He had to go back to shut the trunk, but he was still going to count it as one trip.

            “How many chairs are in this thing?” Keith asked, struggling with the drawstring pull at the top of the big camping chair bag while Lance dug a penknife out of one of the reusable grocery sacks.

            “Oh, let me show you…” he said and went to help.

            Inside the bag was not one, but three chairs, and the biggest was this special, fancy double-seater Luis and Lisa had bought for Lance’s parents as an anniversary present. It was basically a canvas loveseat with cupholders. Lance dragged that one out and set it up, pulling the armrests until it was extended fully.

            “Da da-da daa,” he said.

            Keith laughed. “Wow.”

            “There are two regular ones in the bag, too,” Lance replied. “You know, in case you don’t want to sit next to me.”

            Keith marched around to the front of the chair and plopped right in.

            “Build me a fire, Boy Scout.”

            Lance’s heart soared—excited. Pulling the penknife from where he’d tucked it onto his back pocket, he crouched and cut open the plastic around one of the firewood bundles. Keith watched him. The guy was legitimately interested in Lance’s fire-building prowess, so Lance prayed the whole time he stacked logs and crumpled newspaper and busted up sticks for kindling that the damn thing would actually catch. He might have been a little over-zealous on the lighter fluid, but he was determined. It took some fanning with a paper plate, but the flames did take to the bigger logs on the first try.

            Keith applauded. Chuckling, Lance took a bow.

            “Thank you, thank you.”

            Every hint of sun had gone completely by then, so the canyon was good and dark. Lance went to the hatchback to turn the headlights off. Overhead, the stretch of stars between the two mountain faces was bright and glittering, like a river of white dots through a plain of blackness. Keith had gone all golden-orange in the light from the fire when Lance returned. Keith looked up with a smile.

            “That was pretty sexy,” he said.

            Lance grinned. “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            They held each other’s eye for a moment, Lance stood in front of the chair, Keith still sat in it, the fire crackling. Then Lance motioned with his head at the picnic table.

            “I am gonna make you toast your own marshmallows, though,” he said.

            “Mean,” Keith said and got to his feet.

            It took a bit of hunting through one of the bags, but Lance unearthed a headlamp and put it on before opening the graham cracker box.

            “You have a _headlamp?_ ” Keith snorted.

            “Ah, you laugh now, but when _my_ hands are free, and _you_ have to struggle while you hold a flashlight, you’ll change your mind,” Lance replied, wiggling his fingers as a demonstration.

            “Mm-hm. How about pointing that light over here, Boy Scout?”

            Instinctively, Lance looked, and Keith tore open the package of chocolate bars while he was illuminated. Lance scowled, but Keith just laughed, grabbing a roasting stick and fishing a package of graham crackers out of the box in Lance’s hands before going back to the fire.

            “You forgot the marshmallows,” Lance called after him.

            “You’ll bring them,” Keith replied.

            Grumbling because it was true, Lance snatched a bag of marshmallows and a stick and stomped over. Keith had opened the graham cracker package and was meticulously placing his chocolate on top as he positioned a line of crackers along the cement rim of the fire pit.

            “You like them melty?” Lance asked.

            Keith smiled. “Just a little bit. Pass me those.”

            He made a gimme motion with his hands, so Lance tossed him the marshmallows and then pulled the chair up to the fire to sit. Keith joined him a moment later, after skewering some marshmallows on his stick.

            “We used to come up here all the time when Takashi and I were kids,” Keith said, offering the bag to Lance, then focusing his attention on his marshmallows as he extended them over the fire.

            “Yeah?”

            “We never camped, though. It was always just for an afternoon, and we would beg our parents to let us build a fire, but they would always say no because it was light out.”

            “Lame. You can totally have a fire during the day.” Finished with his prep, Lance guided his marshmallows toward the flames.

            “Oh, they said no because I was a pyromaniac,” Keith said with a laugh.

            “Veronica’s the pyro in our family,” Lance replied. “She used to spend entire days burning ants with a magnifying glass.”

            Keith chuckled. “Takashi _hated_ that.”

            “Remind me not to leave you alone with my sister,” Lance replied.

            Keith smiled, and the pair of them was quiet for a moment. It was a comfortable quiet, punctuated by the popping of the logs and the cold breeze that rustled the pines. Then Keith’s marshmallows caught on fire.

            “Aw, you worked so hard to get them golden,” Lance said, chuckling as Keith brought his stick to his face to blow them out.

            Keith shook his head. Like an expert, he slid the marshmallows off the stick onto his row of ready graham crackers. “I like them burned. You can’t do it right away. Otherwise the inside will still be solid.”

            “You _would_ like them burned,” Lance replied, momentarily distracted in watching Keith suck the extra marshmallow off his fingers. But then the guy was offering one of his smores and Lance had to snap out of it.

            “Try,” Keith said.

            Lance surveyed him, then took a calculated risk. Had Keith not already been so flirtatious, Lance never would have done it, but he _had_ been, and so Lance figured what the hell? He bit into the smore without taking it from Keith’s hand. Keith started, but grinned, and held the cracker steady.

            “Oh, damn,” Lance said reflexively, spraying crumbs from his mouth and thereby completely ruining the whole move. Keith laughed while Lance chewed. “That’s really good. You’ve got that down to a science.”

            “Smores are my favorite.”

            Lance swallowed. “Really?”

            Smiling, Keith nodded. For the third time, and probably not the last, Lance offered another mental, “Thank you, Jesus.”

            Keith really packed them away, too. While they talked, he made and ate a solid dozen before he even slowed down, and another three after that. Eventually, he sat back from the fire and tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. He shivered, then pulled his hat from his pocket and put it on.

            “Oh, here,” Lance said, rising. “Let me get the blanket.”

            The thick quilt smelled a little like smoke because it was the designated camping blanket. He brought it back to the chair and sat, unfolding the quilt and offering half to Keith. Rather than take it, Keith tucked his legs up and curled under Lance’s arm and cuddled himself against his chest. Pulse racing, Lance settled the blanket over them both.

            “Thanks,” Keith said.

            “Sure,” Lance replied. He found Keith’s hands under the blanket and laced their fingers together.

            “This is exactly what I wanted to do today,” Keith continued.

            Lance chuckled. “Can I ask why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

            Keith was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I wanted to see you, and I didn’t want you to feel pressured to do some big thing,” he replied.

            “Gotcha.” Lance couldn’t help smiling. “I forgot to ask how old you’re turning.”

            “Twenty-two.”

            “You know what they say…”

            “If you sing Taylor Swift, I swear to god—”

            “ _I don’t know about you—_ ” was all Lance got out before he received an elbow to the gut. Laughing, he snuggled his arms around Keith.

            It was crazy. He’d known this guy for all of five minutes, but he was just _comfortable_ with him. Lance wasn’t sure whether to chalk that up to the electric pull of attraction between them, or the fact that Keith was so open, or maybe the idea that they’d known each other in another life or something dumb. Hunk had warned him not to bend himself into whatever shape he thought might suit Keith best, but so far Lance didn’t really feel like that was happening. He didn’t feel like he _needed_ to bend. It was more like the shape he already was fit perfectly with Keith’s.

            That was an undeniable sensation pure and simple.

            “Theoretically,” he said, “what are your feelings about kissing on the first date?”

            Keith smiled—Lance felt the pull of his cheek against his chest. “ _This_ first date?”

            “Theoretically.”

            Shifting, Keith propped himself up and looked at Lance. Those violet eyes were so dark and beautiful in the firelight. A whirlwind lived within them—this powerful magnetic force that couldn’t be faked. A force of talent, a force of no-shit-taken. Gaze locked with it, Lance began to think that maybe this could be more than a fun, fifteen-second fling.

            Then Keith kissed him.

            And the world went neon.

            There were fingers in his hair and fizz in his heart. His whole body bubbled, carbonated, light and liquid. Keith’s lips slotted gorgeously with his, and his weight against Lance’s chest was welcome. It kept him grounded, kept him from floating away. Kept him there, in the heat, in the moment, with every nerve on and tingling. Then Keith’s lips parted and Lance slipped his tongue between them at the same time he slid his fingers into that inky black hair. The kiss tasted like smores, and Lance _wanted_ more, more, more.  He held Keith tight, pulling him in, the pair of them moving their mouths in nigh-on perfect sync like some kind of duet. Keith captured Lance’s upper lip between his tongue and teeth and sucked, and _that_ was a weird sensation, but Lance _liked_ it? It still surprised him, though, so he pulled back, and their mouths came apart with a pop _._

            Keith let his breath out, and it condensed into visibility on the cold night air.

            Lance could only stare at him, his own breath heavy, his heart hammering. He ran a thumb across Keith’s cheek—

            And then they were kissing again.


	2. Second Movement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peep that E rating, folks. 
> 
> To be frank, I'm not quite sure the fic is _fully_ deserving of an E, but it's pushing the boundaries a little too much for an M in my opinion. Better safe than sorry is the rule I've decided to operate under. 
> 
> MUSIC!
> 
> Luxite's set (YouTube playlist [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLi8jFo752UlA7j9UQcPpMJTNcQMb9Wa27)):  
> Locomotive Breath - Jethro Tull  
> I Hate Myself for Loving You - Joan Jett & The Blackhearts  
> Jolene - Dolly Parton  
> Who's Crying Now - Journey  
> Killer Queen - Queen  
> No More Words - Berlin  
> Ain't It a Shame - The B-52's  
> Magic Man - Heart  
> The Stranger - Billy Joel  
> Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now - Starship  
> I Was Made for Lovin' You - Kiss
> 
> Some Christmas music for Lance's quartet (playlist [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLi8jFo752UlChCqI8jOBdWxbMZfbe1toB)):  
> Nutcracker Overture - Tchaikovsky, performed by The Aries Trombone Quartet  
> Russian Dance Trepak - Tchaikovsky, arranged by Craig Kaucher, performed by The Aries Trombone Quartet  
> Christmas Time is Here - Guaraldi and Mendelson, arranged by Lisa Albrecht, performed by The Aries Trombone Quartet
> 
> Other incidentals just for fun (playlist [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLi8jFo752UlBDy6cigAnzbAn8HZS_n2OW)):  
> Song for a Future Generation - The B-52's  
> Baby, Won't You Please Come Home - Sarah Vaughan  
> You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet - Bachman-Turner Overdrive  
> Monster Mash - Bobby "Boris" Pickett  
> Sandy - John Travolta  
> I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me) - Whitney Houston
> 
> Without giving too much away, the setlist for Luxite is more for your peripheral enjoyment than anything else! The band plays a Halloween show that I also don't want to spoil. The music is available pretty much everywhere, so you should be able to find it if you want to give it a listen when you get there.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry that the text conversations look like absolute shit on mobile. Formatting is a bitch. Anyway--
> 
> ENJOY!!

Lance rested his hand on Keith’s knee the whole drive home, and Keith rested his hand on top of Lance’s. When they pulled up in front of that white house with green trim in the Avenues, Lance ran his hand across Keith’s thigh. Keith squeezed his fingers. They leaned across the console to kiss a little.

            “Thank you,” Keith said, drawing away. “For dinner and the record and everything.”

            “Happy Birthday,” Lance replied.

            The neighborhood was quiet and dark—porchlights illuminating the street. October was too cold for crickets, but October also had this special air with its own vibrations.

            “We’re going to _Psycho_ at the Orpheum on Friday, if you wanna come,” Lance said.

            A nod. “Can I see you before then?”

            October was something else. Everything got crisper—weather, leaves, sunshine. Nighttime. October was the heart of autumn. A month of orange and black. Fall without warmth, but with the chill of anticipation. Like a door had opened and was letting in a draft, but the year hadn’t quite started to exit yet.

            Smiling, Lance leaned forward to give Keith a peck on the lips. “For sure.”

            He tried to finish the thought, explain that he had rehearsals tomorrow, and a paper due Thursday, so they’d have to work around some stuff, but Keith followed as Lance moved away. He pulled a couple more kisses from Lance’s mouth. The words got lost.

            “I’ll text you,” Keith said and popped open his door.

            Lance startled to himself, hopped out of the car, and hurried to meet Keith on the other side. Billy Idol record tucked under one arm, Keith regarded him in surprise.

            “You don’t have to walk me to the door,” he said.

            “I want to,” Lance replied.

            Keith smiled and looped his free arm through Lance’s. “All right, Boy Scout.”

            Together, they crunched up the gravel driveway and rounded the house. A single bulb over the basement stairs provided the only light, making the backyard disappear into a realm of shadows. There might have been a van back there, maybe some lawn furniture. Lance couldn’t tell. Keith paused at the top of the stairs and turned to face him with a glinting grin.

            “Krolia’s a notorious door-listener,” he said. He tucked the record against his chest, then caught it between himself and Lance as he slid his arms around Lance’s middle. “She’ll be waiting up for me.”

            “A Boy Scout always walks little old ladies to the _door_ , though.”

            “Y—”

            “Don’t you need help down the stairs, ma’am?”

            Laughing, Keith whapped him across the chest.

            “Ouch! Jesus. Careful with your purse, there, grandma.”

            “Make an old woman joke one more time—”

            Lance raised his eyebrows and said, “Or what?”

            Another challenge he shouldn’t have issued. Keith popped onto his toes, caught Lance’s bottom lip in his mouth, and bit down, like, really, really hard. He slipped away with an evil smile, grasping his record before it fell, saying, “Have fun playing trombone tomorrow.”

            Raising a hand to feel for damage because that’s what you _do_ when you’re in pain, Lance discovered his lip was already swelling. There wasn’t blood, but it would bruise.

            He chased Keith down the stairs, calling, “Hey!”

            The guy turned just in time to catch a kiss. He let out a muffled noise of surprise, but relaxed into the embrace like a pro, record held protectively above his head. That arm settled over Lance’s shoulders. Lance pressed him up against the concrete wall by the front door. They got a little carried away—Lance running his hands all over Keith’s hips and thighs, Keith wrapping his arms around Lance’s neck and knotting his fingers in his hair.

            Lance popped his head back when Keith’s teeth clipped his bottom lip again.

            “Don’t bite me,” he said, laughing, pinning the guy when he tried to escape without making restitution.

            “Don’t call me a little old lady,” Keith replied.

            They looked at each other, their faces inches apart, breath synchronized. Keith smiled, slow, but uncontrolled. Lance kissed that smile. Keith sighed into his mouth and went all slack. Every last hair on Lance’s arms stood on end. He touched his lips in a neat little line across Keith’s jaw and down his throat.

            “What are you doing tomorrow?” Keith asked. His fingers brushed the back of Lance’s neck and sparked goosebumps there, too.

            “I’ve got class,” Lance replied, barely lifting his mouth to speak.

            “After?”

            “Rehearsal.”

            “Mm.”

            Lance didn’t know when they’d started moving against each other the way they were, but he came to the realization slowly. Falling still, he lifted his head to look at Keith, and Keith smiled at him, subdued and content.

            “And after?” he asked.

            “Practice,” Lance said. “With Matt. We’re in a trombone quartet. But…you could probably come if you want…?”

            He didn’t think the others would mind. Matt wouldn’t. Matt would try to get Keith to play—no question. That would be weird. But also good. And Lance. Was having trouble. Thinking. More than a couple. Words. At a time. Because Keith. Was pushing his hips against him. And nipping little kisses at his neck.

            Hard to believe that less than a week ago, he hadn’t even known Shiro _had_ a brother.

            “I won’t be in your way?” Keith asked, voice quiet. “I’d like to come see you play.”

            “Hn—what?”

            Lance blinked back to active thought. Chuckling, eyebrows raised, Keith looked up at him through those thick false lashes.

            “Oh. I’ll text everybody to make sure,” Lance said.

            “Okay.”

            They stared at each other some more. Lance didn’t want to leave, and Keith made no move to go. But it was late, and Lance had his stupid 19th century chamber music theory class first thing in the morning. It wasn’t _actually_ stupid. It just wasn’t Keith. More specifically, making out with Keith next to Keith’s front door.

            The Billy Idol record tapped against Lance’s shoulders.

            “I should get going,” Keith said.

            Reluctant, Lance took half a step back. “Thanks for letting me walk you to your door.”

            “ _Hm_ ,” Keith said and it sounded like a laugh. “Anytime, Boy Scout.”

            That _smile_. Lance couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward to kiss it one more time, savoring the feeling of Keith kissing back.

            “See you tomorrow,” Keith said as Lance officially moved away.

            Lance nodded. “I’ll let you know when and where.”

            “Perfect.”

            “Goodnight.”

            A hand on the doorknob, Keith smiled. “Goodnight.”

            With that, he slipped inside. Lance let his breath out. Ran a hand through his hair. Started up the steps and somehow made it back to the car. He sat in a daze for a second, then pulled out his phone and sent a text to the quartet group chat.

                                                       _You guys cool if I bring somebody_

_to practice tomorrow?_

**

 

Lance woke up to approximately one thousand texts from Matthew Holt.

            One, a calm _Sure, man! No problem. :)_ in the group chat.

The others sent to Lance alone.

                        _Is it Keith?_

_Lance, is it Keith?_

_LANCE, IS IT KEITH?_

_LANCE_

_LANCE_

_LAAAAAAAAAAAANCE_

_IS IT KEITH?_

_IS. IT. KEEEEEEEEITH?_

_Answer me, you heathen!_

_IS_

_IT_

_KEITH?_

_Jam session?_

_JAM SESSION??_

_J A M  S E S S I O N!_

_JAAAAAAM SESSIOOOOOOON!_

_J_

_A_

_M_

_S_

_E_

_S_

_S_

_I_

_O_

_N_

_!_

The gif of Shaq and that cat wiggling their shoulders followed. Then one of a parakeet running away from a CGI explosion. Then:

                        _I’m reserving him every available string_

_instrument the school has for loan!_

_You can’t stop me!_

Chuckling, Lance shook his head.

            The rest of the quartet’s reactions were mixed. Rizavi had replied _fine with me but won’t they be bored soooo much christmas music O_O_

Then there was Lotor.

            Goddamn Lotor.

            He was first chair trombone in Wind Ensemble. As he had been since he and Lance had started at New Altea. It was no secret they hated each other. Lotor was one of the aforementioned “rich schmucks” Lance couldn’t afford to compete with. The only reason he tolerated having the guy in the quartet was because he was a good player who actually showed up to practice. Reliability was worth more than raw talent, and Lotor was about as reliable as they came.

            He’d said: _If you must._

            “If you must,” Lance read mockingly, nose wrinkled.

            He typed out _Thanks guys_ and added a passive-aggressive smiley face. Almost the _instant_ he’d sent the text, his phone rang. It was Matt.

            “Hello?”

            “ _Is it Keith?!_ ”

            Wincing, Lance pulled the phone away from his ear. “Christ, Matt. It’s six AM.”

            “The school’s only got a bass and a viola available, but you’ll have to help me carry them because—”

            “ _Matt._ We’re not doing a jam session with him.”

            Lance physically _felt_ Matt’s eyes devil-spark on the other end of the line.

            “So it _is_ Keith,” he said, tone tinged by a grin. Lance opened his mouth to reply, but Matt started to laugh maniacally and hung up.

            Practice was going to be interesting.

            Getting out of bed, Lance dressed quickly and quietly, packed his backpack, and went to the kitchen to eat. He did that quietly, too, not wanting to bother Hunk, who didn’t have early classes on Tuesdays. Lance left the apartment equal parts excited and nervous. On the one hand: Keith. On the other: Keith in the same room as Matt and Lotor.

            The memory of Keith’s lips on his flashed across his mind.

            Lance decided it was worth it.

            Campus was pretty peaceful in the mornings. Few people were big fans of seven o’clock classes, but Lance had always preferred them. He liked being up, liked getting a handle on the day. Pidge had often described him as a Morning Squirrel: “bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and way too freaking chatty.” He was the only one in his chamber music theory class who consistently stayed awake during lectures.

            Today, though awake, he was not paying attention.

                                                                                    _Morning_

_Everybody said it was cool for_

_you to come to practice_

_We still on?_

_where do you want me_

Lance stared at that reply for a good six minutes. His heartbeat pounded against his temples like somebody going ham on a bass drum pedal. Was Keith flirting? It sounded like flirting. Should Lance flirt back? What if Keith wasn’t flirting, and Lance sent what he _wanted_ to send—something to the tune of _in my bed or up against the wall or in the backseat or literally wherever you want_ —and Keith was just trying to get information? Better safe than sorry.

                                                   _We’ll be in studio 304 in the Alfor_

_Memorial Building at 7_

_ok_

_That’s actually the fourth floor bc_

_the building is weird and British_

_I know_

_I went there_

Lance blushed, which was stupid because Keith couldn’t see him.

                        _should I bring a peace offering_

_pizza_

_donuts_

_Ooo I wouldn’t say no to pizza_

_it’s not about you_

_The rest of the quartet loves_

_pepperoni and olive the most_

_you’re a shit liar_

Lance chuckled.

_I’m bringing cheese just to_

_spite you_

_Seriously, though, pizza’s great_

_Ingratiate yourself with the band_

_kids muahaha_

_cool_

_see you at seven boy scout_

            Smiling, Lance looked up from his phone, and the lecture slides had moved into uncharted territory. Jolting, he picked up a pen to start writing, but the slide changed again, so he took some half-assed notes and went back to his phone.

                                                                                   _Oh, fair warning_

_Matt’s convinced you’re gonna_

_have a jam session with us, so_

_he reserved a bunch of instruments_

_for you_

_oh my god_

_hahahaha_

_ok_

_Stupid right?_

Lance waited, but Keith didn’t reply.

                                                                                              _Right?_

Even by the end of class, Keith still hadn’t responded. The balance of Lance’s demeanor tipped in favor of nervous—a state that was not helped that afternoon at rehearsal for Wind Ensemble when he set his trombone case on the chair next to Matt, and Matt went, “ _Dude_ , what happened to your _face?_ ”

            Lance had forgotten about the bite-shaped bruise on his bottom lip. Instinctively, he sucked the lip into his mouth to hide it and winced at the uncomfortable pull. Pidge materialized in front of him, a reed in her mouth, which Matt snapped away from her.

            “How many times do I have to tell you about the enzymes?” he cried.

            Pidge waved him off. “What face?” she asked, owl eyes combing Lance.

            He couldn’t keep his lip in his mouth forever. Pouting a little, he let it slide free.

            Pidge gasped.

            “I _know_ you know that’s the worst possible way to prep bassoon reeds, Pidge,” Matt said, though he went ignored by his sister.

            “Did you get in a _fight?_ ” she asked.

            “No,” Lance grumbled, blushing.

            The blush tipped her off. Her expression cleared to make way for the biggest, shiniest shit-eating grin Lance had ever seen. Pidge folded her arms just grinning, grinning, grinning. She knew _exactly_ where the bruise had come from, and Lance hadn’t said two words. Her mouth opened. Lance stuck his hand in her face and shoved her away before she could speak.

            “Go back to your chair, Thumbelina,” he ordered.

            Pidge snatched her reed from Matt. “Okay, _lover boy_.”

            She stuck her tongue out as she walked off, so Lance returned in kind, but quickly redacted the expression when he noticed Lotor standing at the end of the row. The guy’s scrutiny focused on the bruise first thing.

            “That won’t affect your playing will it?” he asked.

            Lance narrowed his eyes. “No.”

            “Good.” Lotor set his instrument case on his chair and let his coat fall from his shoulders like a supermodel at the end of a runway. “It’s so mediocre anyway.”

            Matt grimaced. Lance glared. Lotor chuckled.

            “I jest, of course.”

            “Uh-huh.” Sitting down, Lance flipped open his own case and started assembling his instrument a little too roughly.

            The rest of the ensemble trickled in, took their seats, and started piecing together their instruments. Lotor finished early and wandered through the rows, chatting with the other brass section leaders—the ones he’d recruited to his posse, at least. Acxa, the first chair saxophone. Zethrid, first chair tuba. And Ezor. First chair flute.

            “I hate them,” Lance grumbled.

            Matt patted his shoulder. “I know, buddy.”

            “It’s just— _hrgh_.”

            “I know, buddy.”

            As Lance eyeballed them, Lotor threw his head back and laughed at some joke Ezor must have told. Lance gritted his teeth. He couldn’t help it. Animosity came with the territory.

            The room quieted, however, as a pair of heels clacked across the floor. Allura approached from the side and walked swiftly to the podium. She was a Master’s student at New Altea and their assistant director. Everyone took their seats. She didn’t even have to ask. She looked up at the group and smiled, setting a folder of music on the podium.

            “Carry on.”

            The chatter resumed, but quietly. Matt leaned over to Lance, his gaze locked on Allura.

            “Hey, since you somehow managed to bag a super-hot musician, do you think _my_ chances have increased?”

            “What do you mean ‘somehow’?”

            Matt opened his mouth to respond, but Allura looked up from organizing and the whole ensemble shut up. They’d never shown as much respect to Coran, and he was their _actual_ director. He just wasn’t the same kind of scary. Allura smiled.

            “We’ll begin with a warmup.”

 

That evening, Lance made sure to get to the rehearsal studio early, but Rizavi still beat him there. Technically, she was a high school student, but she was eighteen and enrolled at the feeder school for New Altea, so it wasn’t _that_ weird that she played in their ensemble. She already had her instrument assembled and had spread a bunch of stuff across the table—a physics book, pad of paper, calculator, loose pages of notes.

            “How long have _you_ been here?” Lance asked, shutting the door behind him.

            “Since three,” Rivazi replied. She stuck the end of the pen in her mouth and punched a couple things into her calculator.

            “Christ. Why?”

            “It’s quiet,” she replied. “Do you have any idea how _loud_ the high school band room is?”

            Laughing, Lance set his stuff down and took off his jacket. “Rizzo, I went to _public_ school. I have seen shit you cannot even imagine.”

            Rizavi dropped her pen, slammed her physics book shut, and looked up at him, eyes sparkling. “Tell me, senpai.”

            “Well, there was this crawl space in the ceiling in the locker room that you could wiggle into if you got up on top of the lockers,” Lance replied, hopping up to sit on the table, “so one kid wanted to see how far he could go. He made it above the lunchroom, then fell through the ceiling. They suspended him.”

            “Oh my god.”

            Lance laughed. “I’ve got more. Our first chair tuba used to empty his spit valve into glass jars because he wanted to, quote, ‘see how much, on average, he spit in his instrument during a single practice.’”

            Rizavi’s face contorted into an expression of horror.

            “It gets worse,” Lance added.

            “ _No_.”

            “He saved the jars, Rizzo. _Saved_ them. Like trophies. And he kept them all in his locker.”

            Covering her ears, Rizavi squealed, disgusted but also entertained. “ _Stop_.”

            “No, no—listen. He saved them in his locker, right? Well, he had the shitty locker nobody wanted because it was right under the heater vent and it would get ridiculously hot in there. Well, the heater malfunctioned and then _broke_ because there was a frost.”

            Rizavi put her hands over her mouth. “Oh no.”

            “ _Yes_. The jars cracked. We came in that morning to a _lake_ of spit leaking out of his locker.”

            Making a noise like the Grudge, Rizavi pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and slumped in her chair. “That is the _worst_ thing I have _ever_ heard.”

            “Can’t make this shit up, Rizzo.”

            She shook her head, still horrified as she processed the information. Lance chuckled. He opened his mouth to apologize, but a thump sounded right outside the door. Somebody knocked. Exchanging confused expressions with Rizavi, Lance went to the door and opened it.

            A viola case was instantly thrust into his face.

            “Take this, take this, take this,” Matt said, letting go of the case before Lance even had a hand on it. Matt leapt to the side and stopped an enormous upright bass from tipping over.

            “Why are you like this?” Lance asked.

            Grinning, Matt propped the door open and dragged the bass inside to lay it on the floor.

            “You know you love me.”

            “ _Well_ —”

            “What are those for, Matt?” Rizavi asked. Her brows pulled together as she surveyed the instrument cases from her chair.

            “These are for Keith.” Matt patted the bass and stood up.

            Rizavi looked to Lance. “Keith?”

            “The mysterious gentleman caller Lance invited to practice,” Matt replied for him. He laughed when Lance glared, and kept talking before anyone could get a word in edgewise. “He’s a musician, too, and I just wanted to keep our options open, you know, in case he wants to play with us.” Matt gave an innocent shrug that didn’t fool anyone.

            “I didn’t know you had a gentleman caller,” Rizavi said and wiggled her eyebrows.

            “Please don’t call him that,” Lance sighed.

            Rizavi put her hands under her chin. “ _Okay_. What do you want me to _call_ your _caller?_ ”

            “Rizzo—”

            “Oh, oh. How about ‘beau’?” Matt suggested, laughing and leaning against Rizavi’s chair. “No, wait! ‘Suitor’!”

            “I _like_ suitor,” Rizavi replied. “Admirer? Bae? Boo?”

            “Bae suitor.”

            “ _Yes!_ ”

            They high-fived, which provided a flustered Lance an opening to protest, but an irritated voice in the doorway interrupted him.

            “Exactly why is there a bass on the floor?”

            Lotor lifted his eyes from the bass to Lance, a single eyebrow cocked. Gritting his teeth, Lance looked to Matt because _Matt_ was the reason there was a bass on the floor, and Lance was in no mood to explain.

            “It’s for Lance’s bae suitor,” Matt replied.

            Lance smacked his palm to his forehead. Rizavi put up her hand for Matt to high-five again. Shaking his head, Lotor came into the room to set up and shut the door behind him. The guy knew better than to ask for further clarification, so he was silent as he assembled his trombone and took his sheet music out. The rest of them got to work, too, putting together their own instruments and starting a couple warmups.

            In the relative quiet—which wasn’t quiet at all—that nervousness began to creep back under Lance’s skin. Had it really been a good idea to invite Keith to this? What if he got bored? What if Matt said something to him? Or Rizavi? Or Lotor? What if Lance made a fool of himself? He and Keith didn’t really _know_ each other.

            This wasn’t the first time Lance had felt a quote unquote “connection” with somebody. Crushes for him had always been electric infatuations. In the first stage, it was easy to think you knew a person when you didn’t. The thing with the Keith “thing” was that Lance didn’t want it to be _just_ a crush. He wanted it to be _more_ , and he didn’t know why. Was it because Keith seemed equally interested? Was it because Keith was the most attractive individual Lance had ever laid eyes on? Was it something else? He didn’t know.

            But Keith was on his way there.

            The smell of pizza preceded him. Even Lotor perked up at the scent. A knock at the door, it opened, and there he was—food delivery angel, a glorious halo of cheesy goodness radiating from his head.

            Lance abandoned his trombone in an instant to meet Keith at the door.

            “Hi, Boy Scout,” Keith smiled.

            “Can we talk?” Lance replied.

            Keith blinked at the abrupt and unconventional greeting, but nodded, sliding the pizza box onto the table and backing into the hall. Lance shut the door.

            “What’s up?” Keith asked.

            Lance engulfed him in a kiss. Totally caught off-guard, Keith let out a muffled noise of surprise. Lance slid his fingers around Keith’s face and into his hair, just kissing, kissing, kissing. When Lance finally pulled back, Keith chuckled.

            “This is not talking,” he said.

            Lance laughed a little, too. “Yeah, sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you with the dreaded ‘can we talk.’ I just…I don’t know, I kinda freaked myself out.”

            “About what?”

            He shook his head. “It was stupid, but I’m glad I got that out of my system. I don’t think I would have been able to play with you sitting there—unkissed.”

            Stroking Keith’s cheek, Lance smiled, which earned him a smile back. That smile turned ultra-sexy as Keith stood on his toes and sucked Lance’s bottom lip into his mouth. Lance’s gut coiled, and his heart did little somersaults. Keith let go and smiled at him.

            “Consider me kissed,” he said.

            “Mm,” Lance replied. “Not quite.”

            Keith laughed as Lance drew him forward and pressed a few more kisses to his mouth. One of Keith’s hands reached up to settle around the back of Lance’s head, and when Lance moved away, he noticed why it was just the one.   

            Keith was carrying a violin case in his other hand.

            “Oh no.”

            “Ask and ye shall receive,” Keith said.

            “But—”

            “Now introduce me to your quartet, Boy Scout, and maybe I’ll go easy on you,” Keith said, moving toward the door. Lance intercepted him halfway and opened it himself.

            If this was going to happen, it was going to happen on _his_ terms.

            By then, Matt and Rizavi had descended upon the pizza box and the bag of garlic knots. They were devouring both. The only thing that distracted Matt from food was noticing Keith’s violin case for himself.

            “No _way_ ,” he gasped, mouth full. “Jam _sessiooon!_ ”

            He choked, thank god. Rizavi unhelpfully patted his back. Lotor deigned to approach while the others were thus occupied, flipping his hair with a slight tilt of his neck. He extended his hand for Keith to shake.

            “Lotor,” he said with a slithery smile. “You must be Lance’s plus one.”

            Keith slapped his hand into Lotor’s and shook with confidence. “Keith.”

            Brow pulling, Lotor’s eyes flicked to Keith’s chest. “Really?” he asked.

            Keith laughed. “Yeah?”

            That was when Lance noticed what Keith was wearing under his jacket: a black t-shirt with a block of white text. One of the words visible through the opening was, in fact, “Keith”.

            “What’s it say?” Lance asked.

            Keith shed his jacket to show _Hey, my name is Keith and I’m a Scorpio from Athens, GA, and I like to find the essence from within._ Somehow the phrase made less sense now that it was fully visible.

            “What the hell?”

            “It’s a lyric—sorta,” Keith replied. “From ‘Song for a Future Generation’ by The B-52’s. Krolia got it for me for my birthday.”

            No longer suffocating on a wad of dough and cheese, Matt chimed in with a hoarse, “Are you actually _from_ Georgia?”

            “My birth dad was from Athens, so, kinda? This is Keith Strickland’s little, like, bio from that song. My birth parents named me after him.”

            “How quaint,” Lotor said with a smile.

            Keith returned it. “Can’t all have fancy-boy family names.”

            Lotor narrowed his eyes, but Keith kept right on smiling and didn’t back down. Rizavi and Matt munched their pizza, staring, eyes flicking between Keith and Lotor, absolutely titillated by the drama. Much to Lance’s surprise, it was Lotor who buckled. And he looked none-to-happy about conceding dominance to someone else.

            “No, I suppose not,” he said and sneered at the pizza before returning to his chair.

            Eyes wide, Lance looked to Keith and mouthed, “I could kiss you.”

            Grinning, Keith blew him a subtle kiss with just his lips. Lance grinned back.

            “Are you really gonna play with us?” Rizavi asked. “I’m Nadia, by the way. You can call me Rizavi. Or Rizzo. Or Riz. Or whatever.”

            Keith nodded. “I don’t wanna get in your way, so you guys do what you need to and if you wanna stick around after, we can experiment.” He set his violin case on the table and smiled at Rizavi, then Matt.

            “We ought to get started,” Lotor said. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

            Matt, Rizavi, and Lance all exchanged annoyed expressions, but moved to get ready to play. Rizavi took a swig from her water bottle and swished aggressively, then wiped her hands off. Matt followed suit only after noticing her do it. Lotor rolled his eyes.

            “So you’re polite when there’s company?” he asked.

            Cheeks full of water, Matt raised his eyebrows at the guy. Lotor gestured at Keith.

            Matt swallowed. “I don’t follow.”

            “I have seen you clean enough food out of that trombone to feed a family of five,” Lotor replied, “but now that we have guests, you’ve suddenly developed manners?”

            “Only _you_ would complain when somebody finally does the thing you constantly nag them about,” Matt said. He sat down, wiped his hands on his pants, and smiled when Lotor gritted his teeth.

            “Let’s just start,” Lance said.

            They all got comfortable. Keith climbed up to sit on the table and eat while he watched. He gave Lance a particular smile when Lance caught his eye, but aside from that, he really did make himself small. Lance probably wouldn’t have noticed he was there had he not been reminded of that bruise every time he brought his mouthpiece to his lips.

            Their quartet was prepping a mountain of Christmas music—most of it from _The Nutcracker_ , but with plenty else sprinkled in. They were slated to play a bunch of different venues. The outdoor mall downtown, the Tree Festival, this fancy rich-people party Lotor had booked them—to name a few. The holidays would be hellishly busy, but the money was decent. Lance found himself wondering throughout practice if a trombone quartet was something that would do all right at Blade Base, or if that would just be weird.

             Lotor put up a particular stink that evening. While Lance had founded the quartet and was technically in charge, Lotor had always made his voice heard. He wasn’t typically combative, however, and his opinions were valid most of the time, but that night he really was just on one. The second Lance called it a wrap, Lotor disassembled his trombone and disappeared in a flash of silver hair.

            “Is he always like that?” Keith asked.

            Matt jumped. “Holy _shit_. I forgot you were over there.”

            Keith laughed. “I know how annoying extra people at a practice can be, so I tried to stay quiet,” he replied.

            “Well, you rolled a nat twenty on your stealth check this time, my dude.”

            “Thanks?”

            Waving his hand, Matt went to grab another slice of pizza. “Never mind. You staying to jam with us, Rizzo?”

            “ _Hrgh_ —I want to, but I told my mom I’d come home right after practice?” she said, biting her bottom lip as she debated. “I got most of my homework done, but it’s a school night… _ugh_.”

            “We can do it again sometime,” Keith said. Rizavi’s expression brightened immediately. “Doesn’t have to be tonight.”

            “Really?”

            Keith shrugged. “Sure.”

            Rizavi sprang from her seat and dashed over to give him a high-five. “Awesome! Great! Okay! Lance, will you organize it?” She started packing up her physics homework in a rush, then took her trombone apart. “Seriously, I really want to. I’m sorry I can’t stay. But please let’s do it again. It was so nice to meet you, Keith. See you later!” She flew out the door in a similar flurry. Keith chuckled.

            “Energetic,” he said.

            “Comes with the territory,” Matt replied. “You ready to play?”

            Keith hopped down from the table. “You bet.”

 

The “jam session” started with Lance melting as Keith tuned the borrowed bass by ear. The thing sounded goddamn amazing by the time he was finished with it. He plucked a little jazz riff to test it out.

            “Not my strongest instrument,” he said with a chuckle, looking up at Lance and Matt. “But a better choice to begin with. Until I get a feel for your style.”

            “Do you have, like, a twin sister I could date? Or a female clone?” Matt asked.

            Keith laughed. “Just Takashi. Who is also very gay.”

            “Curse my heterosexuality.”

            That earned a barking laugh from Keith. “Officially the title of this improvisation,” he said, then gave them a bass line to follow. Matt nearly wriggled out of his skin he was so excited. He listened to the line a little longer, then joined.

            Matt was a solid player, which was unexpected given how much time he spent dicking around during class and rehearsal. Lance had never once seen him study for a test or practice without getting distracted, but he did work hard when it came down it. That showed in his ability to improv. He played a glossy solo to match the tone Keith had set, and Keith followed his changes like they’d been playing together for years. Lance watched, mesmerized, a little envious, until Keith shouted, “I don’t hear any tenor!” and looked over at Lance with a smile.

            Startling, Lance brought his trombone to his mouth and blew.

            He and Matt had played like this thousands of times—it was one of the many things Coran yelled at them for doing during warmups—but the dynamic had changed with Keith. He made them smoother, more electric. More controlled. Lance and Matt traded a couple of calls and answers, then fell into a rhythm together. For their first time playing as a trio, they actually sounded pretty good.

            “Oh my god, Pidge is gonna be so jealous,” Matt said as they finished. “We should record something to torture her with.” He looked at Keith. “Do you know ‘Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home’?”

            “I know the Sarah Vaughn one?”

            “Perfect. Lance, you play the vocal part.”

            Giggling, Matt set his phone on a music stand and pressed record. He flipped the bird at the camera, then nodded and started playing. Keith picked up his part. Lance let Matt have the spotlight a little longer before coming in. It was a sexy little song, so Lance decided to sell it and really piss Pidge off. He put his whole body into playing, and about halfway through, he glanced over at Keith. Keith was already watching him, a smile on his mouth, and when his eyes connected with Lance’s, he blew another one of those subtle kisses with just his lips.

            Lance tried not to smile too hard.

            If he did, he wouldn’t be able to play.

 

They stayed in the studio until the facilities manager kicked them out so he could lock up. Keith put the bass away and took all the stringed instrument cases as they left. Lance carried the empty pizza box.

            The three of them walked to Matt’s car and loaded the bass into the trunk, then the viola, then his trombone. The rental office had long since closed, as had the buildings with lockers, so he would have to return the borrowed instruments tomorrow. A cold night breeze picked up, swirling leaves around their feet as Matt slammed the trunk shut and turned to grin at Lance and Keith.

            “Thanks for indulging me, man,” he said.

            “It was fun,” Keith replied. “Thanks for the invite.”

            “Did Lance tell you about _Psycho_ on Friday?”

            Keith nodded. “I’m coming.”

            “Excellent.”

            With a final smile, Matt saluted them both, then climbed into the driver’s seat and headed off. Keith looked up at Lance.

            “Did you really have fun?” Lance asked.

            Keith wound his arm through his and nodded. “Of course.”

            Satisfied, Lance started walking, headed for his and Hunk’s apartment. “I’m sorry you didn’t play your violin.”

            “No problem. I didn’t know what Matt would have.”

            “No, I mean I’m sorry for myself because I didn’t get to see you play it,” Lance replied.

            Keith snorted. “Poor baby.”

            Smiling, they both settled into a companionable silence. Campus was totally empty, but well-lit. They walked arm in arm past all the shiny buildings, carrying their instrument cases, their feet crunching in the leaves. Lance wondered if it was weird for Keith to be back at a school he’d dropped out of, but he didn’t ask. It didn’t seem like the right time.

            “Can I ask you something?” Keith said.

            “Sure,” Lance replied. _Same wavelength_ , he thought.

            “Earlier, when you said you freaked yourself out, what did you mean?” He glanced up at Lance, then added, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

            “Oh.” Lance pursed his lips. “I… Before you got here, I was overthinking,” he said. “I do that a lot. Today, just…about, like, you coming to practice and how that would go and if Matt would be an ass or Lotor would be a jerk and stuff like that.” He held back the directly Keith-related bits.

            Keith chuckled. “Lotor _was_ a jerk.”

            Sighing, Lance nodded.

            “Is that guy always on your ass?”

            Lance shrugged. “He’s first chair.”

            “Oh.”

            That was the only explanation necessary.

            They arrived at Tower 1, and Lance fished his key fob so they could get inside. He pressed the elevator call button and only then realized that he hadn’t told Keith where they were going or asked if it was okay.

            “Oh! Um, this is my apartment building.”

            “Yeah, I figured,” Keith said with a laugh.

            “Is that cool? Do you want to come up?”

            The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. Keith slipped inside, smiling, drawing Lance along with him.

            “Which floor?” he asked.

            “Sixteen.”

            Keith pressed the button with the end of his violin case, but ended up pressing all the buttons around it, too. He laughed. The elevator started up.

            “Do you have any roommates?” he asked.

            “Yeah, Hunk. He was there on Friday. Big guy? Orange headband?”

            Keith nodded as the elevator stopped on the twelfth floor and fruitlessly opened its doors.

            “He knows you were maybe coming, though, so don’t worry. I’m not pulling the ol’ ‘roommate surprise.’ He’ll probably be asleep already anyway.”

            Keith nodded again, and the elevator reached the sixteenth floor. Lance led the way down the hall to his apartment. He had to pass Keith his trombone case to unlock the door.

            Hunk had left the table lamp in the living room on for them, along with a plate of macarons and a little note. It said, “Dark chocolate and orange. Not totally happy with the filling, but I tried. Hope everything went well. Had to go to bed. School is death. Hunk.”

            Keith took his shoes off by the door and set the instruments down.

            “Asleep?” he whispered.

            Lance nodded. “We’ll be better off out here,” he replied, voice low. He brought the treat plate over to Keith and held it out. “Our rooms share a wall.”

            “Gotcha.” Keith took two of the macarons and went to the couch.

            Lance watched him go, frozen for a moment. The easiness between them suddenly struck him as odd. They had known each other less than a week, and already Lance had invited him to his apartment and introduced him to his friends and met one of his parents—and _none_ of that had been uncomfortable. Nerve-wracking, maybe, but not awkward. He knew he shouldn’t be suspicious about it, and he wasn’t—not with Keith, at least—but with the universe. Things rarely went this well for him. In any capacity.

            “You okay?” Keith asked. He had already eaten both macarons and was brushing his hands off.

            Blinking back to himself, Lance nodded. “Yeah, just…overthinking again.”

            He brought the plate into the living room and set it on the end table. He sat on the couch next to Keith, who shed his jacket and snuggled comfortably alongside him. Lance smiled.

            “You’re warm,” he said.

            Keith laughed. “I know. It’s a Kogane thing, apparently. Krolia says my birth dad was a human furnace.”

            “I like it,” Lance said. He brushed his fingers across Keith’s cheek and jaw, down his neck. Keith hummed a happy note.

            “Yeah?”

            Lance nodded.

            He pulled Keith in for a kiss, and Keith just melted with him. So easy. Easy, easy, easy. And good. Real good. _Very_ good. Lance cradled Keith’s head in his hands to keep their lips together as he lay back on the couch. Keith followed in tandem. They got a little tangled on the way down, but soon settled—fitted together like a couple of puzzle pieces.

            Keith kissed with enthusiasm. He kissed like he played music: a full-body performance. Gorgeous notes strummed at the back of his throat. Listening to them made Lance’s skin tingle. Warm fingers carded through Lance’s hair. Then those fingers were at the hem of his shirt, and under it, sliding up his stomach and spreading across his chest. Lance hummed into Keith’s mouth and felt Keith smile.

            Reaching up, Lance brushed a hand through Keith’s hair. He traced the outside of his ear, fingers catching on that piercing. His other hand moved to Keith’s waist, then around it. His fingertips went electric when they grazed skin, then took a hard left to sweep up the groove of Keith’s spine. Keith moaned at the touch, and Lance’s tingling skin went from mild to manic in an instant. He swept along Keith’s spine again, and Keith’s shirt got caught on his wrist. The text on the front must have wrinkled the whole way up.

            _Hey, my name is Keith and I’m a Scorpio from Athens, GA, and I like to find the essence from within_

Jesus, he was warm. And _heavy_. And Lance was not used to being the one on the bottom, and again the words “same wavelength” crossed his mind as Keith broke their mouths apart and breathlessly said, “Wanna trade?”

            Lance nodded. They both sat up. They both folded over the other direction. Keith laughed, quiet and close, as Lance pressed his lips to his neck.

            “You’re pretty… _hnm_ …good with your mouth,” Keith sighed.

            “Yeah?”

            “ _Nnn._ ”

            Lance couldn’t help a full-bodied shiver. If Keith kept making noises like that…

            He lifted his face to go back to kissing, hoping maybe that would muffle him, but Keith nipped up and caught Lance’s bottom lip and teased it between his teeth. Lance groaned and knotted his fingers in the front of Keith’s shirt.

            _Hey, my name is Keith and I’m a Scorpio from Athens, GA, and I like to find the essence from within_

Keith released him and rested his head on the couch, eyes heady and glittering. A satisfied smile hid around the corners of his mouth. Lance stared at him, just _on_ —on, on, on. He slowly puzzled his way back down until their bodies fit together like matching pieces again.

            And there they stayed until it was late enough to call it early.

 

**

 

Lance had to kick his sense of discipline into high gear to keep from spending every waking moment with Keith. He had shit to do—classes and a paper and rehearsals and work. Still, two days apart felt like a week. He spent most of those two days texting the guy anyway, so by the time Friday rolled around, they hadn’t really been out of contact.

            Matt pulled up in front of Keith’s house in the Avenues, and Lance unbuckled his seatbelt to get out.

            “Cool porch,” Pidge said. “We should have a party.”

            “Yeah,” Matt replied. “Maybe we could _play_ our _instruments_ or _something_.”

            Pidge smacked the back of his head and sent a cloud of baby powder into the air. The two of them were dressed in their famous Norman Bates and Mother costumes—painstakingly accurate makeup and outfits they’d done in black and white. Matt was Mother, his face painted with grotesque wrinkles and grinning teeth, his hair sprayed black and then greyed with baby powder. As frightening as Matt looked, Pidge was worse. She was far too good at the signature Norman Bates “she wouldn’t even harm a fly” smile.

            “The jam session was _my_ idea, Matt,” she said. “ _Mine_.”

            Lance left them arguing—and Hunk mediating—as he went around the back of Keith’s house and trotted down the stairs. He knocked on the door.

            “Coming!” Keith called.

            An undisciplined smile spread across Lance’s face, his heart beating with anticipation. When Keith opened the door and slipped out, Lance’s smile widened. He was so twitterpated it was kind of disgusting.

            “Hi,” Keith said, smiling up at him.

            “Hi.”

            Smiling still, Keith brushed his fingers down the inside of Lance’s arm and took his hand. Lance gave it a squeeze, then started up the stairs.

            “You look nice,” Keith said.

            “Thank you, so do you.”

            Pink, Keith tucked his hair behind his ear. “Thanks.”

            Lance thought about pausing at the edge of the house, pushing Keith against the wall, and kissing the hell out of him, but he didn’t. He _wanted_ to—for sure—but he held back. He didn’t want the only foundation for this relationship to be physical attraction. They had that in the bag. What he needed to know was whether this could be more—like he’d thought it could that night up the canyon.

            “I’ll sit in the middle,” he said, lifting Keith’s hand to press a kiss to the back of it. Had to let the guy know he was still invested. “Brace yourself for Matt and Pidge. They’re really on one tonight.”

            Their voices were audible from the yard, as a matter of fact. Muffled by the car, but still loud. By then, Hunk had intervened, his arm up as a barrier between the two front seats.

            “Are they wearing _costumes?_ ” Keith asked.

            Lance nodded. “Norman Bates and Mother.”

            “Amazing.”

            He let go of Keith’s hand to open the door and slide in. Hunk moved to give him room, which meant his arm blockade had to come down, which meant Matt and Pidge could hit each other. Which they did.

            “You don’t even _like_ Moon Pies,” Pidge cried.

            Lance raised an eyebrow at Hunk, who sighed and shook his head.

            “Don’t bother,” he said, then leaned forward to look at Keith. “Hey, man. I’m Hunk. Sorry I missed you the other night. I know we technically met at your concert, but we didn’t get a chance to talk, so it doesn’t feel like we did.”

            “Don’t worry about it,” Keith said with a smile. “Thank you for the macarons.”

            Hunk chuckled. “They weren’t the best.”

            “Are you kidding me? They were incredible!”

            A shy, but beaming smile overtook Hunk’s face. Lance turned his eyes heavenward to thank the gods. Any semblance of relief shattered, however, when Matt flipped around and asked, “As good as a Moon Pie?” and Pidge hit him again—so hard that he choked on the baby powder cloud she created.

            “Hello, Keith. I’m Pidge,” she said, sticking her hand back for him to shake. “You already know my idiot brother.”

            “You guys look great,” Keith said as he shook.

            “Thanks. Any socially acceptable excuse to wear a costume, and I’ll be in one,” she replied.

            “Is this a costume thing?” Keith asked. His eyes flicked to Lance as Pidge turned around and Matt put the car in drive.

            “No,” Lance replied.

            Keith grinned, stifling a laugh. Lance returned the expression and laced their fingers together. Comfortable, they settled in for the short drive to the theater.

            Parking was a nightmare around the Orpheum, and the lot was full since the movie was popular. Matt let them off at the curb and zipped away to find a spot up the street. A line had formed outside the theater, so their group headed for the back. Pidge’s costume got lots of grins and pointed fingers and shouts of, “Norman!” as she passed. She even paused to do that creepy smile at a couple people.

            “She could work in a haunted house,” Keith chuckled as they reached the end of the line.

            “She did,” Lance replied. “For, like, four years.”

            “It was the _worst,_ man,” Hunk added. “Whatever you do, don’t ask her about it, or she’ll do that horrible zombie growl.”

            Pidge popped up right behind Hunk and did that exact growl into his ear. He jumped, whirling around and taking a huge step away from her.

            “I swear to god,” he said with a pointed finger. Pidge just laughed.

            “I can’t believe that still freaks you out,” she said.

            “That is a perfectly reasonable noise to be frightened of!”

            Lance looked to Keith and smiled, a little apologetic as Hunk and Pidge continued their debate. “This is how most of our conversations go,” he said. “We’re a little intense.”

            Keith shook his head. “I like it.”

            Lance’s smile softened. “I’m glad.”

            Keith looped his arm through Lance’s, and the pair of them turned their attention back to Hunk and Pidge, who seemed to have reached the end of their discussion.

            “Well, coming from _you,_ it’s creepy,” Hunk said, folding his arms.

            Pidge rolled her eyes and looked at Keith. “What do _you_ think? Creepy or nah?”

            Keith chuckled, then gave her a shrug. “Takes a lot to creep me out.”

            “Oh, that’s probably true,” Pidge said. She tapped her chin. “You _have_ made out with Lance.”

            Keith snorted, so Lance flashed him a glare before settling an irritated expression on Pidge. Of course, she couldn’t have cared less. He held her eye until he felt Keith’s fingers massage against his arm.

            “You know you’re a good kisser, right?” Keith asked.

            Lance blushed. He tried to tell himself it was because his friends were there, but really Keith just had that effect on him. He covered the embarrassment with an impish grin, but that wasn’t enough, so he leaned down to give Keith a peck on the lips. Keith kissed him back. A couple times, actually—light and affectionate. When he pulled away, Pidge pretended to shiver.

            “See? Creepy,” she said.

            Keith laughed. Lance looked to Hunk for backup, but the guy had such a bizarre expression on his face, Lance actually startled. Hunk startled at his startling and averted his eyes.

            Lance didn’t know what to make of it.

            The ticket window opened a couple minutes later, and the line scooted forward. Pidge and Keith chatted about horror movies. Hunk chimed in every now and again. Eventually Matt caught up, and everybody was so in love with his costume they didn’t care that he had technically cut the line. At the window, Keith insisted on buying Lance’s ticket.

            “You sure?” Lance asked.

            Keith nodded, already sliding the cashier his card. “Of course. I’ll even get you popcorn if you want.” He winked.

            “Is that a euphemism?” Pidge asked from behind them.

            Keith laughed as Lance turned red again. The cashier returned Keith’s card and their tickets. As they moved away from the window, Keith leaned back to coo, “One large popcorn with extra butter please,” at Pidge.

            “Ooh, I hope it’s not too salty,” she replied without missing a beat.

            Both of them laughed. Lance grumbled his way inside, dragging Keith along with him. Begrudgingly—because what was a movie without popcorn?—he did agree to one of the big buckets at the concession stand. Keith pulled him aside as they moved out of the way for the next customer.

            “Hey,” he said, voice soft. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. I can tone it down.”

            Surprised, Lance straightened. “Oh…I—no, I mean. It’s not you really.”

            Keith raised an eyebrow.

            “It’s Pidge,” Lance explained. “She just, like…knows exactly what buttons to push. She always has.”

            “Gotcha.”

            Smiling, Keith left it at that. He moved toward the doors into the Orpheum’s single theater, but Lance drew him to a stop.

            “Thanks for checking in,” he said.

            Keith stepped close and touched a kiss to Lance’s cheek. “Sure.”

            “Oy! Lovebirds!” Pidge hollered from the theater entrance. “Get your asses over here before all the good seats are gone!” 

            Keith looked up at Lance and gave his elbow a squeeze, ready to follow Lance’s lead. Feeling a little more confident, Lance navigated the crowd. As he passed Pidge going into the theater, he reached out and smeared the makeup on her nose. She tried to whack his shoulder, but he was too quick. Lance took off down the aisle and snaked into the row where Hunk and Matt were already seated. He plopped down next to Hunk, and Keith next to him. Pidge glowered from the end of the row.

            “So much dishing and so little taking,” Lance said, clicking his tongue.

            Pidge huffed and folded her arms across her chest. She entered the row, but rather than sit next to Keith, she moved past him, then Lance, purposefully knocking into his knees and stepping on his feet.

            “Ow! Hellspawn,” Lance said, scowling as Pidge moved primly past Hunk and Matt and sat down. She leaned forward to blow him a kiss and chime, “Straight from the devil himself.”

            The theater filled quickly, and the lights soon dimmed. Keith leaned over as they went out completely and the movie screen turned on. Lance felt the guy’s breath on his neck, then his teeth on his earlobe, and he shivered. A glance at Keith, and Keith was smiling. Lance bent to kiss him.

            It was just natural. They could have been going to Friday night movies together for the last five years. Lance leaned back and took Keith’s hand, and they settled—totally at home.

            But even that easiness was not enough to keep Lance from noticing how Hunk shifted in his seat.

 

After the movie, Matt and Pidge wanted shakes, so Matt drove them to an Iceberg in spite of protests that it was October. They went through the drive-thru, and ate in the car, and turned the heater up all the way on the ride home because Pidge was shivering. Lance, however, was not cold in the least. He had Keith next to him.

            They pulled up in front of Keith’s house, and the Holts turned around simultaneously.

            “You live in the basement, right?” Pidge asked. “Do you have porch privileges?”

            Keith laughed. “That’s the landlord’s apartment, so…kinda? She’s pretty relaxed, and told us we can use it whenever we want, but we never do.”

            Pidge sighed wistfully. “It’s such a good porch, though.”

            “You’re welcome to it,” Keith replied.

            Pidge stared longingly out the window, then sat bolt upright. “Oh! I meant to ask! Is Luxite playing at Blade Base tomorrow?”

            Keith nodded. Lance’s mind flashed back to last Friday when he’d first seen him. That hair. That makeup. Those eyes. The sparkly firebird and black violin. How was it possible that that human was holding his hand?

            “Eight o’clock,” Keith said. “You guys should come. I can save you a table again.”

            He looked up at Lance with expectant eyes. Had Lance not been practicing discipline when it came to Keith, he would have called Rolo immediately to say he wouldn’t be in tomorrow. But he _had_ practiced. And he needed the money.

            “I work tomorrow night,” Lance said. “The record store is open late on weekends.”

            “Okay,” Keith smiled. He looked to the rest of the car’s occupants, starting with Hunk.

            “Homework,” Hunk said. “Tonight was my free night.”

            “Well, _Matt_ and I will definitely be there,” Pidge said. She clapped a hand on her brother’s shoulder, and Matt nodded, grinning.

            Keith returned the expression. “I’ll let Kolivan know. Just text me how many people are coming. You can get my number from Lance.”

            Pidge gave him a double thumbs up, so Keith took that as his cue. He got out of the car, and Lance followed, intent on walking him to his door no matter what teasing he’d have to endure.

            “I’m sorry I can’t make it tomorrow,” he said as they started up the gravel drive.

            Keith laughed. “We play every weekend. I don’t expect you to drop everything.”

            They rounded the back of the house, and Keith came to a stop. He drew Lance into his arms and looked up at him with a smile. Lance studied his face, brushing a thumb across his cheek, then sighing.

            “I wish I could, though.”

            He couldn’t help thinking about all the shows he’d already missed. Lance had known Shiro for _three years_. How had he not said anything about Keith? How had the topic of _brother_ never come up? Maybe he and Shiro weren’t actually that close. Maybe there were extenuating family circumstances Lance knew nothing about. Maybe a little bit of both. And maybe that was why Lance felt so at home with Keith. Maybe they were supposed to have met way-back-when and the universe was filling that gap.

            “Do you have plans for Halloween?” Keith asked.

            “If sit at home with a big bag of candy and watch scary movies counts,” Lance replied. “Pidge and Matt will still dress up, though.”

            “Well, if you want, Luxite is playing a special set, and I can comp you guys tickets,” Keith said. “It’s _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ soundtrack, so it should be fun. Costumes encouraged.”

            “ _Seriously?_ ”

            Keith laughed. “Yeah. Do you want to come?”

            “Do I want to come?” Lance scoffed. “Yes. _Hell_ yes. I will be there. I will be there if I have to donate my kidney and stand on one leg.”

            Keith popped onto his toes and smacked a kiss to Lance’s mouth. “I’ll see you then.”

            Lance nodded and let him slip away, raising a hand as Keith waved at him from the bottom of the stairs. He walked back to the car with a dumb smile on his face and climbed into the backseat, where he grinned at his friends.

            “Hot new plans for Halloween, fam.”

 

Matt and Pidge were still in the throes of costume decisions for the updated Halloween extravaganza when they dropped Hunk and Lance off at Tower 1. Hunk had been quiet the whole drive, and he stayed quiet the whole walk to the front door. About halfway through the silent elevator ride, Lance broke.

            “Is everything all right, man?” he asked.

            Hunk glanced at him. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Fine.”

            “Really selling it on the sincerity.”

            The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. Hunk squeezed his way between them before there was even room. Frowning, Lance followed.

            “Dude, you can talk to me,” he said.

            Hunk shrugged, unlocking their door and pushing inside. “I don’t think you want to hear what I have to say.”

            He wasn’t usually hostile, and had he not been stressed out by school, he probably wouldn’t have sounded so snippy. Still, the tone sparked an irritated flare in Lance. He shut the door a little too roughly behind him.

            “Try me,” he said.

            Hunk turned around. Lance folded his arms across his chest. Then raised his eyebrow.

            “I dunno, man,” Hunk replied, throwing his arms up in a shrug. “This whole Keith thing seems a little weird to me.”

            “Weird how?”

            Hunk laughed in disbelief. “Are you kidding?”

            “No, I’m not,” Lance replied. “Weird. How.”

            “Lance, you’ve known the guy for a _week_. Seven days! _Seven days_ and you walk around like you’ve been together for years. That’s not normal.”

            “I’m always like this with crushes.”

            “ _I._ _Know_. But you’ve never been _reciprocated_ at the same level before, and I’ll be honest, man, it’s kinda limerence-y. Both of you. I don’t know. It’s just—it’s—you don’t _know_ him, like, at all, and it was weird to watch my best friend kiss a stranger like that.”

            “Give me a little more credit, man.”

            “I _am_ giving you credit—and maybe Keith’s fine. Maybe Keith’s great and it’ll all work out and I will have worried for nothing, but what if he’s crazy? What if he’s not actually into _you?_ I know how hard you fall, Lance. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

            Lance understood that Hunk only had the best intentions. He understood that Hunk was trying to help. That Hunk was worried, that Hunk was a good friend, that Hunk had his best interest at heart. But that didn’t soften the sting. It didn’t soften the anger and the betrayal. It didn’t soften the frustration and the sense of invisibility. Neither did it help the situation that a little voice at the back of Lance’s head whispered, “Hunk is right.”

            “That’s such bullshit,” Lance said.

            “I’m not—”

            Lance put a hand up and walked away, headed for his room. “You were right, man. I don’t want to hear it. I’m sorry I asked.”

            Hunk followed, but Lance didn’t listen to whatever words were coming out of his mouth. He took off his shoes and his jacket, and Hunk continued to talk, but when Lance didn’t respond, or even acknowledge him, he gave up with a frustrated grunt and walked away. Lance refused to close his door, determined not to lose this standoff, and got ready for bed with the same robotic irascibility. Hunk sat at his desk, door open, and worked on his homework.

            “Just wanted to be honest with you, man,” he said as Lance passed his door. He didn’t even look up from his papers.

            “Yeah. Thanks.”

            Lance went to his room and shut the door. Flopping onto his bed, he let his breath out, then groaned into his pillow. Hunk was right, and Lance _knew_ that, but it didn’t change the way he felt about Keith. It didn’t change how thrilling and refreshing it was to _be_ reciprocated at the same level.

            But how long could that last, really?

            Sighing, he got up and turned off the light and plugged his phone in to charge. He’d left it on silent after the movie, and hadn’t noticed a text from Keith.

                        _night boy scout_

He didn’t reply.

 

**

 

As cheery as Lance had been last Saturday at the record store, he was equally despondent now. This was in no small part thanks to Pidge texting him constant updates from Blade Base. One more picture of Keith in _those_ boots and Lance was going to scream.

                        _Oh my god, they’re playing Killer Queen_

_Lance_

_Bury me with my bassoon_

Even as Lance pouted at his phone, chin resting on his arm, which was resting on the counter by the register, an image came through. Keith. His hair in a messy bun on top of his head. High-neck, backless, long-sleeve shirt. Thigh. High. Boots. Groaning, Lance let his face drop forward. His forehead smacked against the glass display case.

            “Hey!” Nyma shouted at him from across the store. “Could you, like, not?”

            Lance just moaned in response.

            Stupid Pidge. Stupid concert. Stupid work. Stupid Keith. Lance still hadn’t texted him back, unsure what to say after an ignored “goodnight.” Now it was way too damn late. He’d suffered the whole day in silence. Pidge knew somehow and was torturing him, he was certain.

            A hand tapped his shoulder.

            “I love you, but your vibe is so bad right now,” Nyma said, easing him up and away from the register. “Why don’t you go price stuff and I’ll do customer service, ‘kay?”

            Lance whined, but went, taking the pricing gun and extra roll of stickers from her. He slumped over to the back corner where Nyma had been re-ticketing and eased his way between the massive stacks of vinyl. Of course he just _had_ to knock one over. The tower tipped, and records fell, scattering in a wide arc across the floor upon landing. Lance plopped down on Nyma’s stool and moaned.

            “God, you are a _disaster_ ,” she said.

            Sulking, Lance nodded. “Yes. Yes I am. That’s me. Disaster bi. Hello. Lovely to see you all.” He did a miserable beauty queen wave around the empty store.

            “What happened to your bucket of sunshine?”

            “Reality upended it into the gutter,” Lance replied.

            Pidge sent another photo, and Lance opened it immediately. Keith and Krolia sharing a microphone. Ugh, and Krolia had said she _liked_ him. And Keith had said Krolia was the harder mom to impress, and _ugh._ Why did Hunk have to add a voice of reason to Lance’s overthinking? Why did Lance have to overthink in the first place? Why couldn’t he just have let things run their course and enjoyed having a hot musician to make out with for however long? Why did he always have to make it weird?

            Weird.

            That word sounded in his head in Hunk’s voice now. Truth be told, the thing with Keith _was_ weird. Lance had been thinking it was weird from the very beginning, except wasn’t the word he had put to it.

            A million questions swarmed his brain. Questions for Keith, questions for the universe. What are your intentions toward me? What am I to you? What do you want me to be? Do you honestly find me attractive? Why are you still on the market? What kind of crazy are you hiding? Those last ones were more for Keith than the universe, but if the universe wanted to answer, Lance would listen.

            He didn’t know when, but he’d started gathering the fallen vinyl into two smaller stacks. Nyma had come over to help him.

            “Did things go south with Keith?” she asked.

            Lance sat back and let his breath out. “Kinda? I mean, no. Not with Keith. But—you were here when he came into the record store…”

            “Duh. I’ve only been replaying that moment over and over again and _dying_.”

            “Okay, well, it’s been like that _the whole time_. Like, we just hit it off and seem to be on the same page and it’s just…really easy? And I’m not used to that? We went to a movie last night with a couple friends and my roommate mentioned after that he thought it was weird how close Keith and I act, and…it is.”

            “So? Lots of people find fast make out buddies.” 

            Lance shook his head. He set down the records he’d gathered and frowned at the cover of the one on top. Jimmy Buffett. _Riddles in the Sand_.

            “It isn’t like that though,” Lance said. “ _That’s_ what’s weird.”

            He looked at Nyma, and she shrugged, plopping a few more Buffett albums onto the stack and dusting off her hands.

            “I don’t follow,” she said.

            “Keith doesn’t feel like my make out buddy,” Lance replied. “He feels like…my boyfriend.”

            Nyma’s eyes went wide as she pulled a face. “Woo. Okay.” She stood up. Making that face still, she puffed some air through her lips and shook her head, then squinted at Lance. “How long have you known him?”

            “A week.”

            She grimaced, then let out a low whistle. “Yeah, yup. Mm-hm. Deffo weird.” Her face went pale. “Did you…like…tell him?”

            “I’m not _that_ big of a disaster,” Lance replied. He got to his feet only to plop on the stool.

            “ _Oh thank god_.” She laughed—one of those laughs people do when they don’t know how else to react. After a second, she smacked the back of her hand playfully against his shoulder, but it didn’t make Lance feel better at all. “You’re in the clear. He’s still into you, right? You can sit tight and see how things go. That’s not so bad.”

            “Yeah, but…”

            But he couldn’t stomach being in another one-sided “relationship.”

            That would kill him.

            He didn’t say anything, though. Not to Nyma.

            Lance sighed. “You’re right.”

            She nudged his jaw with a gentle fist. “There’s the champ.”

            Laughing a little, Lance pretended to flex. She applauded for him, then cupped her hands around her mouth and cheered, which earned a genuine smile. She might have kept going, hyping him up, but the bells over the door jingled and a couple customers came in. With a parting smile, Nyma broke away to greet them, and Lance went back to pricing.

            His phone buzzed in his back pocket. He knew it was Pidge.

            But he was practicing discipline.

            So it would have to wait until the end of his shift.

 

Bounty Hunter Music closed at midnight on Saturdays. Lance waved goodbye to Nyma and Rolo at the front door as the latter locked up. Then he headed for his bus stop, scrolling through the rest of the texts Pidge had sent him.

            Most were entreaties that she was going to die. The rest were keysmashes or incomprehensible collections of emojis. She’d only sent one other photo—a selfie of her and Matt and their parents with Keith and Romelle after the show, all of them pulling faces. The picture made Lance hurt and fuzzy at the same time. He sent Pidge a couple of hearts.

            Then he called Keith.

            He half hoped it would go to voicemail. He even started preparing what he would leave for his message, but the lines connected, and Keith said, “Hey,” and Lance’s entire vocabulary tumbled out the back of his head.

            “Lance?”

            Lance snapped back to attention. “Hi! Yeah, sorry. I…” He’d walked an entire block past his bus stop. “I just realized I was going the wrong direction.” He turned around. “How are you? How was the show?”

            “It was good,” Keith chuckled. “Kolivan wants Matt and Pidge to come every night. They really amped up the crowd.”

            “Yeah, they’re good for that. Pidge sent me some pictures. You looked…” Lance chewed his bottom lip.

            Keith said, “Yes?” and the smile in his voice shone through.

            “Well, I was gonna say ‘smoking hot’ but that sounded stupid.”

            Keith laughed. Lance melted just listening to it.

            “I’ll take smoking hot.”

            Lance smiled. “Good. Oh, hang on a sec, my bus is coming…”

            It was the last on the route for the night, so if Lance missed it, he was screwed. He hailed the driver, then jogged to meet the bus at the stop. He climbed aboard, smiled a hello as he tapped his student ID, then flopped into one of the empty seats near the front. He wasn’t the only rider, but he was one of few.

            “How was work?” Keith asked.

            “Okay,” Lance replied. He wasn’t about to relay his dramatic display with Nyma, or the cause of said display. “We got a bunch more Jimmy Buffett in, if Shiro’s looking to complete his collection?”

            A wistful chuckle. “I should stock up. Have Christmas and birthdays covered for years.”

            Another voice sounded on Keith’s end of the line, but it was too far away for Lance to distinguish the speaker or their words. Keith answered them.

            “It’s Lance,” he said. The voice responded, and Keith laughed. “Krolia says hi.”

            “Oh! Hi, Krolia.” The corner of Lance’s mouth turned up in a sad smile.

            “He says hi back.” More muffled speech from Krolia. “I will… Goodnight, Mama… I love you, too… Sorry.” That last address was for Lance.

            “No, that’s okay.”

            “You were telling me about work?”

            “ _You_ were telling me about Shiro’s Jimmy Buffett collection,” Lance returned. He’d said all he wanted to say about work, and was more than happy to let the subject lie. “What other old man stuff does he listen to?”

            “You mean besides the mountain of classical music?”

            “Classical music does not an old man make,” Lance replied.

            “You wanna think about your phrasing there and try again?” Keith laughed.

            “Okay, sassy. And what did you study when you went to New Altea?”

            “Contemporary composition.”

            Lance reared back. That was _not_ the answer he had expected. Not at all.  He blinked for a second while Keith chuckled at his silence.

            “Wait, do you, like, _write_ music?”

            “No,” Keith laughed. “That’s why I dropped out. I suck at composition. Hence the cover band. My parents wanted me to study violin, and I told them I would if they let me double major, but the two-degrees-at-once thing was too much, and I ended up hating composition—yadda yadda yadda—I quit and disgraced the family legacy forever.”

            “Yikes.”

            Keith made a noise that was the verbal equivalent of a shrug. “Happier now.”

            Lance didn’t really know what to say. That was the quality he envied in Keith: the ability to take the plunge. Change was tough in general, but _choosing_ change was even harder. Lance had never liked change, had even been known to suffer through shitty situations just because they were familiar. Most of the time it was easier to deal with a garbage status quo than to do something about it. Maybe that was the reason he’d never _really_ tried for first chair…

            “You there still?” Keith asked.

            “Oh! Yeah…I…think I just had an epiphany.”

            “A good epiphany?”

            “I don’t know—hey.” Lance sat up and hit the button for his stop. “Tell me if I’m wrong here, but do you, like…want to make it big?”

            “In music?”

            “Yeah.”

            The bus rumbled to a halt, and Lance nodded at the driver again as he got off. It must have rained on campus because the ground was wet and the leaves had lost their crunch. Most of the building lights shut off around 11:45, so Lance only had the orange glow of the streetlamps for light as he walked.

            “I mean, I kind of can’t,” Keith replied. “I don’t write my own stuff.”

            “You could get somebody to write for you.”

            “Like who?”

            “I don’t know, but songwriters _exist_. You’re just… You’re so talented it’s kind of infuriating.”

            Keith’s breath huffed across the receiver. “So you think I’m wasting my talent?”

            “No— _hrgh._ That’s not what I meant. Just—” Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. “That ‘it’ factor, Keith. You have that. Not everybody does. And for those of us who don’t, and who _want_ what an ‘it’-factor person could have, watching them not want it is… I don’t know. I’m not, like, criticizing you, I just…”

            Keith didn’t say anything.

            “I _want_ it so bad, Keith…”

            That want consumed him sometimes. Technically, it consumed him _all_ the time, he just chose to ignore it. The hungry, burning, furious desperation to _be something._ To make a living playing music, to be known and loved by perfect strangers. He didn’t know _why_ he wanted that. He knew how unlikely and unrealistic and day-dreamy it was. He knew that he didn’t have “it”. Whatever “it” was.

            “So you picked trombone?” Keith replied.

            “That’s not the only instrument I play.”

            Again, Keith fell silent. Lance willed himself to shut up, to stop, to quit making it worse, but he’d opened the Pandora’s Box of emotional baggage and now all the bad stuff had to come pouring out.

            “I picked up piano my freshman year. I still suck at it, so I keep it to myself.” He didn’t even acknowledge it really, burying the information so deep he rarely thought about it. “I can’t do anything until I’m good, and I don’t have any time to practice with everything else. I want to start a jazz band, but—”  

            “So do it.”

            “What?”

            “Do it. Get off _my_ ass and solve _your_ problem, because your problem isn’t with me.”

            Lance stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk.

            “You want to make it big? Fine. _Try_. But don’t project that onto me. Don’t call me and complain that I could have what you want and cry because you think you can’t have it. Frankly? That’s bullshit.”

            Lance’s breath stuck in his throat.

            Keith went quiet on his end.

            Heart racing with fear and adrenaline, Lance opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He stood in the middle of the campus for the _best_ music school in the country—a school _he_ attended—and said nothing. Just…listened to the silence on the other end of the line. A heavy silence. A silence that hurt.

            “You have no idea what I want,” Keith said.

            Tears rose in Lance’s eyes. They stung.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice tight.

            “Thank you,” Keith replied.

            Lance pinched the bridge of his nose again, this time to keep himself from crying. Why the _hell_ was he crying? He took a second to collect himself, but stayed stationary in the middle of the sidewalk—not ready to upset his delicate balance. Lance drew a deep breath in, and let it out slow. Keith just listened.

            “Can I ask you a question?” Lance said.

            “Of course.”

            “How do you feel about me?”

            Silence.

 _Scary_ silence.

            “Do you want the truth?” Keith asked.

            Lance braced himself. “Yes…”

            “…I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.”

            Lance’s heart stopped. Then it beat in his ears—loud and hard and _painful_. Had he heard right? Had he _heard?_ He could barely hear _now_ , but Keith was still talking.

            “I know that’s stupid. Maybe it’s because you’re hot and flirty and you play the trombone, but that’s how I feel. Sorry if it freaks you out. I know it’s weird.”

            Weird.

            Weird…

            _Wyrd._

            “It’s fate,” Lance said.

            “What?”

            “It’s wyrd. It’s fate. W-Y-R-D.” That wasn’t explanation enough. “I feel the same way.”

            Keith drew an audible breath, and his voice had gone small the next he spoke.

            “Really?”

            Lance started to nod, but then a thought struck him, and it was a thought he couldn’t hold in. “Wait…” he said. “Do you think trombone is hot?”

            “Are you _kidding_ me?” Keith made this noise Lance could only describe as vocalized sexual frustration. “God, your instrument changes _shape_ when you play it. How could that not be hot?”

            Lance busted up laughing. He laughed so hard that the tears he’d wanted to cry rose again, and this time they fell, but it felt _good_. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move, but it was joy that had incapacitated him. He actually had to crouch down in the middle of the sidewalk to collect himself. Keith had started laughing on the other end, too.

            “What?” he said. “Am I not allowed to think trombone is sexy?”

            “No, no, no,” Lance replied, giggling still. “You’re allowed. You’re allowed. Just— _Jesus_. All of the penis jokes I endured in middle school were worth it for this…”

            Somehow, Lance just knew that Keith smiled. He could feel it—the warmth and the brightness—regardless of the distance between them. It made him smile. And somehow he knew that Keith knew it, too. The good thing at the bottom of the box. Hope.

            “Thank you,” Lance said. “For listening to me…and calling me on my bullshit.”

            “You’re welcome.”

            “I’m excited for Tuesday,” he added, standing up and moving on.

            “Are all of you coming?”

            “As far as I know. Maybe not Hunk, but we’ll see. He was a little…uncertain…about how easy things have been between you and me.”

            Keith huffed a laugh. “I don’t blame him. I’ve been a little uncertain myself.”

            Again, Lance stopped walking. _Same wavelength_.

            “Really?” he asked.

            “Mm-hm. I mean, you’re a serial killer, right?”

            “Yes. I bury my victims in tuba cases.”

            “Well, when you kill me, can you make it a double bass, please? I don’t play brass.”

            Oof, Lance could just picture the look on Keith’s face when he said it. The smug eyes, the sexy smile. Lance bit the inside of his bottom lip and grinned, resuming his walk and starting to jog the rest of the way to Tower 1.

            “We’ll see,” he said. “I might have to chop you up into little pieces and scatter you in violin cases.”

            “Even better,” Keith replied.

            Lance came up on the entrance to the building and fumbled for his key fob. Inside, he called the elevator, but lingered in the lobby even after it arrived.

            “Hey, I’ve gotta go,” he said to Keith, though he was loath to say goodnight. “I’m at my building and Hunk’ll be asleep.”

            “Thank you for calling.”

“Thank you for picking up.”

            Again, regardless of distance, Lance knew they both smiled.

            “Goodnight, Boy Scout.”

            “Goodnight, Keith.”

            His name felt good in his mouth. Felt like French kissing and melted smores. Felt like the future.

            “See you Tuesday,” Keith said.

            “See you Tuesday,” Lance replied.

            Keith ended the call and Lance boarded the elevator, his mind whirling with a thousand thoughts he couldn’t pin down.

 

**

 

Sunday passed without too much trauma, which was a miracle since Veronica made Lance tell the whole family about his date with Keith. For the most part, they seemed genuinely excited—though it was tinged, as it always would be, with caution. Monday came and went, and Lance attended class and rehearsal and helped Pidge and Matt put the final touches on their _Shock Treatment_ costumes. He told them nobody was going to know what they were, to which Pidge replied, “Nobody ever knows what we are.” Tuesday morning, on his way to class, Lance got a call from Shiro.

            “Hello?”

            “Hey, it’s Shiro.”

            “Yes, I do have your contact information saved in my phone,” Lance replied. “Your name comes up when you call.”

            Shiro let out sigh of relief. “It says my _name?_ ”

            Lance cackled, then clapped a hand over his mouth. “Nope. Sorry. Still Handsome Squidward. What’s up?” He figured changing the subject would be the best way to get Shiro’s mind off the unwanted nickname, but the guy still grumbled before answering.

            “…touch a clarinet _one time_ at a party,” he said though his teeth. “…never live it down…”

            “I’ll change it to Beefcake MacCool if you want?” Lance offered.

            “ _No_ , that’s fine.” Shiro heaved a heavy sigh. “I just wanted to call to thank you for the present. Keith said you helped him pick it out.”

            “Present?” Lance frowned until he remembered what Keith had purchased that time he’d come into Bounty Hunter Music. “Oh, the Jimmy Buffett record. Yeah, sure, man. No problem.” He paused outside his building to finish the call.  “Hey, how about Mr. Margaritaville for your name instead?”

            “No, I…” Shiro paused. “Actually, yes. I’ll take Mr. Margaritaville.”

            Lance chuckled. “You got it.”

            “Regardless, thank you. I’ll be sure to toast you when I open the tequila.”

            “Very kind,” Lance replied. He was quiet a second, but his curiosity got the better of him. “What’s with the present anyway?”

            “Keith didn’t tell you?”

            “No.”

            “Oh. Halloween was the day our parents adopted him,” Shiro said. “They told me I was getting a little brother for Halloween. I was three, so I thought Halloween presents were normal, and the next year when I didn’t get one, I cried because I thought I’d been bad. They had to give us Halloween presents every year until we were twelve.” He chuckled. “Keith and I kept getting each other gifts, though. It’s just something we do.”

            “ _Shiro_.”

            “What?”

            “I am quite literally clutching my heart right now,” Lance said. And he was, his fingers all gathered up in his jacket. “That is the cutest thing I have _ever_ heard. What did you get Keith?”

            “Are you going to Blade Base tonight?”

            “Yeah, of course.”

            “Then you’ll probably see it. It’s one of those—uh—bar earring things? I had it custom made. It says ‘Luxite.’ Keith put it in right after I gave it to him.”

            Letting his head fall back against the building, Lance groaned. “ _I_ want special a Halloween present. You guys hand out good shit.”

            “My parents _are_ doing full-size candy bars again this year.”

            Lance shook his head and chuckled. “Rachel and I used to ride the bus to neighborhoods like that to trick-or-treat.”

            “I’ll snag you a couple on my way out the door.”

            “Thanks, Shiro.”

            “You’re welcome. Thank you for the gift.”

            Lance smiled. “You’re welcome.”

            They exchanged “see you tonight”s and hung up. A couple texts from Keith had come through during the call, so Lance opened them. One, the short imperative: _lookit._ The other, a selfie of Keith with his hair pulled away from his ear to display the aforementioned industrial piercing. The earring was actually pretty damn cool—bright silver cursive text in the same design as the neon sign Luxite had at Blade Base. Lance whistled at it as he pulled open the door to go inside.

                                                                                             _Gorgeous_

_You and the fancy custom jewelry_

_Mostly you_

_flirt_

_Tease_

_you aint seen nothing yet_

_Bachman-Turner Overdrive_

_that’s not how the game works_

_ass_

Chuckling, Lance took his usual seat in 19th century chamber music theory, got out his notes and a pen, but didn’t put his phone away. He sent Keith a kissy face emoji.

                        _I’m going into rehearsal but_

_do want to hang out after the_

_show tonight_  

                                                                                          _Yes please_

_so polite_

_and you said you weren’t_

_upright and respectable_

_You’ve got the bad boy thing_

_covered_

_wow_

_You are the Danny to my Sandy_

_you’re an idiot_

_Tell me about it, stud_

_hahahaha_

_see you tonight_

            Lance couldn’t wait.

“Ouch,” Veronica said, rubbing the heel of her hand over her heart like an old man in a public service ad about cardiac arrest.

            “What?” Lance asked. He glanced back at her over his shoulder.

            The two of them were in the room she shared with Rachel in the basement of their parents’ house—Veronica on the edge of her bed, Lance in front of the standing mirror. He’d stopped by to borrow some of Veronica’s clothes for a _Grease_ costume. Because why the hell not? She had this black jacket lined with red satin that was almost identical to Sandy’s from the movie. And leather pants. And an elastic belt.  

            “Not only do my pants _fit_ you,” she complained, “but you look _fab_ in them— _double_ ouch.”

            Lance laughed. “The shirt’s a little funky if that makes you feel any better?”

            “That’s only because you don’t have boobs, idiot,” Veronica replied. She hauled herself off the bed and came up behind Lance to pull the extra fabric across his chest tight at the back. “Nothing a safety pin can’t fix.”

            Muttering, she held onto the shirt and hunted through the clutter on the floor. Lance turned his attention to his reflection in the standing mirror. He actually looked pretty damn good. Once the shirt was pinned, it would lie snug off his shoulders, and the belt would help with the waist. The pants, though, really did fit like a glove.

            “Too bad we don’t have a curly blonde wig,” Veronica commented, then laughed triumphantly as she managed to find a safety pin under a pile of loose socks. “Knew I had one.”

            “I’m not trying to look _stupid_ ,” Lance replied. He squared his shoulders so she could pin the shirt. “I’m trying to look hot.”

            Veronica snorted. “And you went with Sandy Olsson?”

            “I’m sorry, have you _seen_ Grease? Olivia Newton-John is a babe in that movie.”

            “You’re such a dork.”

            “Me being a dork has nothing to do with it,” Lance said. Veronica finished with the shirt and stepped back, so he turned side to side to inspect his reflection. “Sandy is hot. It’s just a fact of life.”

            “More of a Rizzo gal myself,” Veronica replied.

            “Vanessa Hudgens as Rizzo? _Yes._ ”

            Clasping her hands over her heart, Veronica let her eyes roll back in her head. “ _Ugh._ Gorgeous.”

            Lance grabbed the belt and jacket off Rachel’s bed and put them on, then turned from the mirror to present himself to Veronica. She conceded a nod as she looked him over.

            “Okay, you look good. I’ll give you points for that.”

            “Thanks for letting me borrow your stuff,” Lance replied.

            “Sure. Sorry I don’t have heels that fit.”

            He shook his head, retrieving his red Converse low tops and putting them on. “These are fine. I don’t want to stand through a whole concert in heels, anyway.”

            On the floor, in the back pocket of his jeans, his phone started to buzz. Lance stepped over to grab it, struggling to bend in the leather pants. Veronica chuckled, so he stuck his tongue out at her, then answered the call. It was Pidge.

            “Hey,” he said.

            “Hey,” she replied. “We’re out front. All the children are staring at us—yeah, I see you and your stupid plastic pumpkin you little shit! Get a pillowcase like a real trick-or-treater!”

            “Please don’t curse at the neighborhood children,” Lance laughed, gathering his stuff.

            “Nah, that kid deserved it. He had one of those ‘this _is_ my costume’ t-shirts on. Are you coming?”

            “On my way out.”

            “Excellent.”

            Pidge hung up, so Lance slid his phone into Veronica’s jacket pocket, then turned to give his sister one last wish-me-luck expression. She returned him with an OK hand symbol.

            “Have fun, Lancey Lance,” she said.

            Laughing, Lance blew her a kiss.

            He hurried through the house, giving his mother a quick peck on the cheek when she insisted, then waving goodbye to Marco, who was seated on the couch in the front room with a big bowl of candy on his lap. Lance pulled open the door and startled a group of trick-or-treaters who had been about to ring the doorbell.

            “Marco, you’ve got customers,” Lance called, then smiled at the kids as he skirted around them to go down the front steps. He crossed the lawn to where Matt and Pidge were parked on the street. They had the windows rolled down and were blasting “Monster Mash”. Lance climbed in the back.

            “Cool jacket,” Pidge yelled, turning around as he shut the door. “What are you?”

            “A loose interpretation of Sandy from _Grease_ ,” Lance yelled back.

            Matt put the car in drive and carefully pulled out. The street was crawling with trick-or-treaters, since the neighborhood were Lance’s family lived was a young one. There had been almost as many kids around when Lance and his siblings had been growing up.

            Once the song finished, and they were on their way to Blade Base, Matt rolled the windows up and turned the music down. He glanced at Lance in the rearview.

            “Couldn’t convince Hunk?” he asked.

            Matt was truly horrifying to look upon. His and Pidge’s Dr. Cosmo and Nation McKinley costumes were every bit as accurate as everything else the Holts did, which meant a bald cap and coke bottle glasses for Matt. Lance had only seen _Shock Treatment_ once, and that was because Pidge had forced him.

            “I didn’t want to push,” Lance replied.

            “Is he doing okay?” Matt asked.

            Lance shrugged. “He’s stressed about school,” he said. “But also…I don’t know…wasn’t really vibing Keith, so…”

            Pidge turned around again. “Really?”

            Lance nodded.

            “How come?”

            “Yeah, Keith’s awesome,” Matt put in.

            Shrugging again, Lance shook his head. “We didn’t really talk about it. He just thought it was weird, and maybe bad, how fast Keith and I connected.”

            “Huh.” Pidge returned to facing forward. “I mean, that’s not really his call.”

            “He’s just trying to look out for me, Pidge.”

            “I know, I’m not digging on Hunk, but like—huh.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I get where he’s coming from—no offense—but also did he _see_ those sparks?” She clicked her tongue. “You guys could have started a damn forest fire.”

            “Should have worn my Smokey Bear costume,” Lance replied.

            Pidge thought that was the funniest thing she’d heard all year and laughed for a good two minutes straight. By the time they pulled up to Blade Base, she had a whole Smokey costume planned for Lance for next Halloween.

            The parking lot was _packed_. People had started parking on the street, but Matt managed to squeeze into a spot on the lot. Lance was careful not to ding the door on the car next to them as he got out. Pidge was right behind him. Together they headed for the entrance while Matt struggled his way out on the driver’s side.

            A line had formed outside the club entrance, but it was moving. Most everybody was dressed in _Rocky Horror_ costumes of one kind or another. Pretty easy when one could literally wear underwear. Lance did not miss how Pidge scoffed at the patrons they passed.

            “Plebeians. All of them,” she said.

            “Not everybody can be an advanced cosplayer,” Lance replied. Matt jogged to catch them up and Lance grimaced as he approached. “You look awful. It’s amazing.”

            “ _Thank you, my dear,_ ” Matt said, doing his best Richard O’Brien impression.

            “Was it this busy when you guys were here on Saturday?” Lance asked.

            Pidge shook her head. “Not even.”

            “I bet a lot of these people would typically go to the Orpheum,” Matt added.

            The theater always played _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ on Halloween and did the whole yell-at-the-screen-throw-toast-on-the-audience thing, but a couple years ago, they’d also added a “live” show where bad actors in shit costumes would stand in front of the screen and mouth the words. The whole event had really gone downhill fast.

            Tonight would be a welcome change of pace.

            The line moved quickly. They worked their way up to the building, and into the weird hallway around the entrance, then inside. At the cover charge booth, Pidge proudly (and loudly) declared that they had comp tickets. The guy checked a clipboard and asked for their names before waving them through.

            “I’m a celebrity,” Pidge said. “You guys want anything to drink while I’m feeling wealthy and generous?”

            “Yeah, get me one of those beers I had last time,” Matt said.

            “A mojito, please, Doctor,” Lance replied, pressing his hands together into a little prayer symbol over his heart.

            “Done and done—get us a spot at the front, or I’ll consume your alcohol.”

            She pointed a finger at each of them before disappearing into the crowd around the bar. Matt looked at Lance, so Lance assumed his tall-friend duties and cut a path toward the stage. Once they got there, surrounded on all sides by pearls and sparkly top hats, Matt’s costume earned them a bubble of personal space.

            “Hunk really didn’t want to come, then?” Matt asked.

            “He knows he was invited,” Lance replied. “That’s as much as I can say.”

            He hadn’t told Hunk about the conversation he’d had with Keith—the one where they’d both admitted their feelings, sorta. Come to think of it, Lance hadn’t seen much of Hunk at all. The guy always had a hermit period at the beginning of every semester, but not like this.

            “Should we be worried?” Matt asked, seeming to have sensed Lance’s thoughts.

            Lance pursed his lips. “I don’t know.”

            Several minutes later, Pidge arrived with drinks. The three of them chatted about nothing in particular while they waited for the show to start, and “nothing” quickly turned into complaining about how terrible _Rocky Horror_ at the Orpheum had become.

            “I had _five_ layers of clothing on,” Pidge said, “and there was rice in my _underwear_.”

            “How does that happen?”

            “They overstuff the goody bags, man. I’m telling you.”

            The overhead lights dimmed and rose a couple times to let people know the show would start soon.

            “How full is it?” Pidge asked.

            Lance swiveled his head around to get a good look at the crowded club. They were in there like sardines. His and Matt’s and Pidge’s personal bubble had disappeared. The cover charge area had been disassembled so the floor space was available, and the front entrance was shut. Given the size of the crowd, he felt less bad about having Keith comp their tickets.

            “It’s gotta be sold out,” he said to Pidge. He continued scanning and soon spotted Shiro at that table where they’d all sat last time. Lance cupped his hands around his mouth. “Shiro!”

            Starting, Shiro looked around, and his face lit up when he noticed Lance waving. He waved back. Lance recognized some of the people at the table with him—Allura, for one, but also a couple of the other Master’s students at New Altea. Shiro gestured at the table and raised his eyebrows, but Lance shook his head.

            “Better view,” he mouthed, motioning between his eyes and the stage with a pair of pointed fingers. Shiro nodded and gave him a thumbs up, sitting back in his chair.

            The lights dimmed for real this time, and it got _blackout_ dark. The audience applauded, cheering, giddy. Lance’s eyes took a second to adjust. Even then, he could barely see Matt and Pidge next to him, and _they_ were wearing bright hospital green. He noticed the band take to the stage only because he was close enough to hear them. 

            Kolivan counted off in a whisper.

            “ _One…two, three…_ ”

            Romelle and Ulaz came in on keyboard and bass, and the audience erupted with applause. They knew the song. The lights stayed out, though, even as an acoustic guitar joined the mix. The hair on Lance’s arms stood on end when Keith sang.

            Jesus, that voice. Lance could have curled up and died.

            Luxite played the whole first verse of “Science Fiction/Double Feature” in the dark. Then, when the music rose for the chorus, so did the stage lights. The audience went nuts. And for good reason. Had Lance not been propped up by the crowd around him, he probably would have gone straight to the floor.

            Keith was in a corset.

            And garters.

            And heels.

            And— _holy shit_ —Keith was in a _corset_.

            The rest of the band was also wearing character costumes of some kind, but Lance hardly noticed. How could he when Keith was standing not ten feet away dressed as Dr. Frank-N-Furter? Messy hair. Black corset with holographic glitter, laced tight at the top, but open as it traveled downward. Matching elbow-length fingerless gloves. Stockings and garters—and, like, Lance knew Keith had _legs_ , but not like— _LEGS._ _Jesus._ He couldn’t stop staring. Not at those legs, not at the red glitter on Keith’s lips as it caught the light. Pidge actually had to reach up and steady him.

            “I think he’s gonna faint,” she laughed, looking at Matt.

            Chuckling, Matt came around and jokingly supported Lance’s other side. Good thing, too, because Keith’s eyes met Lance’s in the crowd on the “ _woah oh oh oh oh_ ”, and Keith smiled, and Lance’s knees went officially weak.

            By the time the song ended, Lance had recovered somewhat from the initial shock. Enough to applaud, at least. And cup his hands around his mouth again to cheer.

            Keith set the acoustic guitar down then returned to his mic.

            “Happy Halloween,” he said, and the audience went nuts again, which made him laugh. “Welcome to Blade Base. We are Luxite and we’re gonna play for you tonight.”

            More cheering. Keith gestured at Romelle.

            “Over on keyboard, and singing for Janet, we’ve got Romelle.” She smiled and waved, blowing kisses. She’d curled her hair and was wearing a pink dress with a white cardigan. “On bass, singing for Dr. Scott and the Criminologist, we’ve got Ulaz.” He had on a suitcoat and tie. “On drums, singing for Columbia and Eddie—Kolivan.”

            “Oh my _god_ , I cannot _wait_ to see _that_ ,” Pidge squealed as Kolivan—who had on a gold top hat and a sparkly red bowtie—raised a hand.

            “On guitar, singing for Brad and Magenta, Krolia.”

            Krolia’s costume was hilarious: a sweater and button-down combo on top, French maid on bottom. She had on a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and one of those white hair doilies as well.

            “I’m Keith, and I’m gonna be singing for Riff Raff, Rocky, and—uh—Frank, so—”

            The audience interrupted him with an explosion of applause and shrieking. He laughed again, and stepped back to retrieve a violin and bow from next to Kolivan’s drum kit.

            “Feel free to sing along.”

            He struck that opening tone for “Dammit Janet” and Krolia got into character, delivering Brad’s lines like a champion. When they came to it, the crowd chimed in with the “Janet” echo. Pidge screamed it so loud, her voice carried above all the others. Romelle had the perfect breathy Susan Sarandon soprano, and just— _Keith_ —in a corset—playing the violin.

            Oof.

            The concert was phenomenal. There was something to be said for a crowd with good energy—doing the time warp and singing along, losing their shit when Kolivan sang falsetto for Columbia, and losing it again at Keith’s “Sweet Transvestite.” The crowd fed the musicians, and the musicians fed the crowd, and for an hour life was perfect. Life was _fun_. Life was an absolute pleasure.

            Luxite encored “Time Warp” again after the “Science Fiction/Double Picture” reprise—just a fantastic ending to a fantastic night. They took their bows and left the stage while the audience screamed—Pidge especially.

            Some of the crowd started shuffling toward the exit, others hung around. Pidge reached up and whacked Lance across the chest.

            “Hey! You survived!” she said.

            Lance pressed a hand over his heart. “ _Barely._ ” He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened to his empty mojito glass, but it was long gone. “Did you _see_ him?”

            “Uh, _yeah._ ”

            “Better brace yourself then,” Matt chuckled.

            And there was Keith, bounding toward them through the crowd. He arrived in front of Lance with a gorgeous smile on those red glittery lips.

            “Hi,” he said, breathless.

            “Hi,” Lance replied, already blushing.

            The crowd quickly took notice of Keith and got all giddy, offering praise and asking to take pictures. Keith was gracious with his thank yous and poses for photos with people—as was the rest of the band when they filtered out. Eventually the hubbub cleared and left their group with some freedom to talk.

            “Knock-out costumes,” Keith said to Matt and Pidge. “I actually think the music for _Shock Treatment_ is stronger than _Rocky Horror_ , but—” Keith cut himself off as Pidge grasped his hand in both of her own.

            “ _Lance_ ,” she gasped. “ _Marry_ him.” Making a fake sobbing sound, she raised Keith’s hand above her head and shook it back and forth. “You! Are! Perfection!”

            Lance laughed. “No disagreements there,” he said, catching Keith’s eye.

            Keith smiled. “Thanks.”

            Shiro approached, his group of friends hanging back a little behind him. He put a hand on Keith’s shoulder, and Keith turned to greet him and give him a hug. The usual “great job” schtick was exchanged, then Shiro waved his people forward and introduced them to Keith—starting with Allura and ending with a guy named Adam who Lance knew also studied cello. Keith shook hands with him.

            “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said. “Sorry I don’t have more clothes on.”

            Adam laughed. “Hey. If you got it…”

            Keith did a little mock curtsy, which earned another laugh.

            “We’re going to head out, but I wanted to say hello,” Shiro said, and Keith nodded. “I’ll see you Sunday?”

            “Yeah. Thank you for coming. Adam, everybody.”

            They all waved or nodded at him—except Allura who was trapped in a conversation with Matt, whose costume was definitely not helping his chances. A few final thank yous, and Shiro left with his friends. Keith looked to Matt and Pidge and Lance.

            “What do you guys want to do?”

            Matt checked his watch. “We should probably peace out, actually. It _is_ a Tuesday.”

            “ _Ugh_ , don’t remind me. I have a quiz tomorrow.” Groaning, Pidge dragged her hands down her face. “Why does Slav have to be so brilliant? I hate his class, and yet…”

            Keith chuckled, then looked up at Lance. “What about you?”

            “Wavy’s open late?” he suggested. “It’s a dance club.”

            A smile lit Keith’s mouth. “Sounds great.”

            “You okay to give him a ride home, then?” Matt asked. “We carpooled.”

            Keith nodded. “For sure. Thank you for coming. Kolivan wanted me to let you know you have an open invitation. Free entry, anytime you want.”

            Hissing happily, Pidge and Matt gave each other double high-fives. They high-fived Keith, then Lance, and skipped toward the door, already talking a million miles a minute. Lance chuckled, shaking his head.

            “Did you want to hang around, or are you ready to go?” Keith asked.

            Lance looked over at him, took his hand, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

            “Ready when you are,” he said.

 

Keith led Lance through the maze of secret hallways to the dressing room where he sat down on one of the chairs and unbuckled the straps on his heels, then kicked them off. He pulled over a backpack, fished out his high tops, and put those on instead, followed by a pair of sweatpants. Lance lingered by the door, feeling like he’d invaded a private space, but Keith snapped him out of it by tossing him a black motorcycle helmet.

            Lance blinked at it. “Wait…”

            “I’ve only got the one,” Keith said. “You should wear it.”

            He stacked his backpack in a pile with what must have been Krolia’s stuff, grabbing his keys and phone and wallet from the front and slipping the latter two into Lance’s jacket pocket as he passed.

            “You cool to carry those for me?”

            “You have a _motorcycle?_ ”

            “Yeah, it’s ancient. Still runs great, though.”

            Struck, Lance stared at the helmet as he followed Keith down another hall and out the back entrance to employee parking. A floodlight clicked on when they triggered its motion sensor, throwing light and shadows across the cars in the lot. Keith came up on an old Suzuki bike. The side of it said GSX 1100, but Lance knew shit about motorcycles except that they were hot, so he wouldn’t have been able to guess the year. Keith walked Lance around the bike and gave him a little safety lesson—which parts got hot, where to put his feet, what signals to give if he needed something, et cetera.

            “You’ve been on a bike before, right?” Keith asked.

            Lance shook his head.

            Keith looked legitimately surprised. “Oh. Shit. Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed. Is this okay? If you’re not comfortable…”

            Lance clutched the helmet to his chest and groaned. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any sexier.” He marched up and dropped the helmet on the motorcycle seat, then took Keith’s face in his hands and drew him in for a kiss. After holding back for so long, that kiss turned sloppy fast.

            Their mouths came apart with a wet _smack_. Keith chuckled when he looked at Lance, reaching to wipe his thumb across his lips.

            “Glitter,” he said.

            “Don’t care,” Lance replied, leaning in to kiss him again.

            There was such a _flare_ there. Kissing Keith had Lance electrified like nothing else. Especially when Keith made those humming sounds in the back of his mouth. Lance pulled him closer, pushing deeper, trying to find the source of that music with his tongue. What he found instead was a new kind of sound that coiled his gut in a fierce heat. Keith’s fingers knotted in the lapels on Lance’s jacket as he keened.

            “ _Jesus_ ,” Lance whispered after pulling back.

            “Sorry,” Keith breathed.

            “No. God, no. I… _Jesus_.” 

            He pulled Keith forward again, kissing hard. Kissing desperate. Keith kissed him back, hands roaming from Lance’s lapels across his collarbone and up his neck. Warm, warm fingers. Warm, warm mouth. Both their faces were smeared with red glitter and lipstick by the time they separated.

            Snorting, Keith laughed. “Very pretty.”

            “No, you,” Lance replied.

            Smiling, Keith popped up to press a few more kisses to Lance’s mouth—bright and friendly. Then he grabbed the helmet and held it out.

            “Lean with me on the turns and don’t put your feet down when we stop.”

            An uncontrollable grin broke out on Lance’s face. He took the helmet. “You got it.”

            Keith climbed onto the bike and steadied it as Lance followed. The motorcycle rumbled to life with a satisfying purr. Lance wrapped his arms around Keith’s waist, pulling himself close. Keith reached back to give Lance’s thigh a squeeze.

            “What’s the address?” he asked.

            “Fourth and Main.”

            They took off.

            The ride was both terrifying and exhilarating—bit of a mirror to Lance’s relationship with Keith, in that sense. The wind whipped at Lance’s jacket, whistled around the helmet and across his face. He almost fell off the damn thing when they stopped at a light for the first time and he instinctively moved to put his feet down. Keith laughed as he struggled to correct the balance.

            “Keep your feet up!” he called. “I’m already breaking so many safety protocols not having you in full gear.”

            “ _You_ don’t even have a helmet on!” Lance countered. Not to mention there was no chance in hell a costume corset was appropriate motorcycle attire. Neither were sweatpants with tights underneath, for that matter.

            Keith just laughed. “How else am I supposed to be your Danny, huh, Sandra Dee?”

            The light turned green, and Keith warned Lance before the bike got going again, but the response had disarmed him entirely, so he almost fell off again and Keith swore at him a bunch, but the curses came with laughter.

            By the time they arrived downtown and pulled up outside Wavy, Lance had kind of figured out the rhythm. His body didn’t go into panic mode as they came to a stop. Keith put his foot down and looked back over his shoulder. Lance had forgotten about the lipstick situation and snorted at Keith’s face.

            “We can’t go inside like this,” he laughed.

            “I’ve got tissues in the compartment, I think,” Keith replied. “You get off first.”

            Lance did, admiring as Keith put the kickstand down, turned off the motorcycle, and dismounted. He unlocked a little storage compartment and dug around for a second before passing Lance a pack of Kleenex. Lance exchanged him for the helmet. Opening the tissues, he worked up some saliva to use to wipe his mouth, but then Keith started stripping out of his sweatpants, and Lance choked.

            “What are you doing!?”

            “It’s Halloween. I’m not going in there with half a costume on,” Keith replied. He tossed the sweatpants across the Suzuki, then frowned. “Wait. Will they get stolen?”

            “They don’t stand a chance,” Lance replied.

            Scowling, Keith opened the storage compartment again. He tried to shove the pants inside, but they wouldn’t fit.

            “Do they have a coat check?”

            “You wanna _coat check_ your sweatpants?”

            “And the helmet.”

            “You’re dysfunctional.” Lance grabbed the helmet and the sweatpants and handed Keith the pack of tissues. “Wipe your face off, Frank. I’ll find a home for your shit.”

            Lance was friendly with almost every member of staff at Wavy. One of them would be kind enough to put the pants and helmet somewhere safe.

            The club entrance was below street level. A fairly substantial line of people in costumes trailed up the stairs and down the block, but that would be less of a problem than the helmet and pants. As soon as they had both cleaned up, Lance led the way to the stairs and trotted down. Keith followed, taking his hand as they reached the entrance. All Lance had to do was put his hand up for a high-five from the bouncer and they were in.

            “Look at you,” Keith trilled. “VIP.”

            “Just a regular,” Lance replied.

            The club was busy, but that was expected. Wavy had this “under the sea” theme going where the main floor was basement level, but they’d knocked out the ceiling all the way to the second story above. Light patterns like water from below the surface projected on a clear plastic kelp forest hung from the rafters. Music reverberated through the whole space. Keith took it in with bright eyes.

            “You want something to drink?” Lance asked.

            Keith turned those bright eyes on him, and Lance couldn’t help giving him a peck on the lips. Keith laughed.

            “Do you want me to crash and kill us on the drive home, Mr. I-Can’t-Keep-My-Feet-Up?” he asked.

            “Oh.” Lance frowned. “I hadn’t considered that… Well, Plaxum makes a killer mocktail?”

            “Lead the way.”

            He gestured for Lance to start walking, so Lance headed for the back of the club. The massive bar along the far wall was also plastic—layers and layers of it that made the color warped and weird. Plaxum, who had on a campy mermaid costume, was one of many tenders, but she was right on the end and easy to reach. Her face lit up when she noticed them coming.

            “I was hoping I’d get to see you tonight,” she said, then smiled at Keith. “Hi, there.”

            Keith nodded. “Hey.”

            “Could you keep these safe for us?” Lance asked, holding up the helmet and sweatpants.

            “Oh, for sure,” she said and took them. “Want me to put your jacket back here, too?”

            Lance nodded and shed the thing to pass it to her. Plaxum disappeared down the length of the bar. Sensing eyes on him, Lance turned to find Keith with a grin on his face.

            “What?”

            “Are you Sandy?” he asked.

            “ _What?_ ”

            “From _Grease_. Are you supposed to be Sandy?”

            “You’re just noticing this _now?_ ”

            Keith shrugged. “I dunno. I was distracted by the leather pants, but now that I’ve seen the shoulders.” His eyes flicked appreciatively across them. Lance’s heart thudded. “Sexy shoulders.”

            Lance blushed. “Stop.”

            But Keith started singing.

            “ _Sandy, can’t you see, I’m in misery?_ ”

            Lance bit the inside of his bottom lip to keep from smiling outright. “ _Stop_ ,” he said, but Keith did not. He kept on going. Even as Plaxum came back. Even as Lance tried to order their drinks. Keith sang louder, right into his ear, following as Lance leaned over the bar to get away. Plaxum just laughed, particularly at Keith’s high-volume “ _why-yi-yi-yi_ ”. The only thing that had the power to stop him—apparently—was the drum machine intro that portended Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” which started playing on the club floor.

            Keith snapped to attention, grabbing Lance’s arm. “Oh my god.”

            Plaxum held their drinks out, so Lance reached to take them and could only glance at Keith with a chuckle. “What?”

            “We have to dance to this song,” Keith replied. He pulled Lance away from the bar, feet giddy, grip strong.

            “But—drinks—”

            “We’ll be back!” Keith shouted to Plaxum.

            There were no negotiations. Keith dragged Lance off, absolutely insistent. Lance stumbled the whole way to the dance floor, walking backwards, Keith’s tugging setting him off-balance. He regained his feet once Keith had found them a suitable location. But then Keith started to dance, and _that_ set Lance off-balance instead.

            He wasn’t exactly a “good” dancer in the typical sense of the word. “Theatrical” and “cheesy” might have been better adjectives. Had anybody else moved the way he did, it would have been awkward. But _Keith_ was confident and enthusiastic and felt music in a way few people did. That made up for it. That _more_ than made up for it. Even though he was lip-syncing along with the words.

            “You’re crazy, you know that?” Lance called over the music.

            “Dance with me, Boy Scout,” Keith replied. “I know you can.”

            Laughing, Lance reached out and pulled Keith in. He hugged him close and took control, channeling Keith’s natural energy into measured movement. The spark that went off in Keith’s eyes made Lance grin.

            So they danced—moving against each other and with each other. Lance led. Keith followed. The effort was seamless, even when Lance reeled Keith in and out for a spin, even when they let go of each other’s hands. Even when Keith turned and pressed his back to Lance’s chest, and Lance wrapped his arms around him. His hands drifted—down Keith’s waist to his hips, to his thighs. His fingers brushed across bare skin and caught on those garters, slipped under the tops of the stockings. Keith leaned his head back against Lance’s shoulder, hands ghosting down Lance’s arms. Lance tipped his own head forward to kiss Keith’s neck.

            “Krolia’s headed up to Arus for Novemberfest tonight,” Keith said as the music started to fade. “We’ll have my place to ourselves…if you wanna come over…”

            Hands on Keith’s hips, Lance hugged him closer. “I’d love to,” he said.

 

They stayed and danced for another hour or two, and did eventually collect their mocktails from Plaxum at the bar—along with Keith’s motorcycle helmet and sweatpants. Lance made sure to tip her double before they left.

            Outside of the wonderful warmth of Keith’s body nested with his, he hardly noticed the ride to the Avenues. They pulled up the gravel drive and came to a stop in the shadows of the backyard. A worn set of tire tracks where Krolia would have parked was conspicuously empty. Keith turned off the motorcycle and looked back at Lance.

            “You first,” he said.

            Lance climbed off. They went inside. The air between them hung heavy with uncertain expectation. Keith set his keys on the counter and turned on the kitchen light.

            “Novemberfest not your thing?” Lance asked.

            Keith shrugged. He shucked his high tops by the door. “Krolia and Kolivan are big on craft beer. They go for the whole time every year, and a cheesy ski resort Oktoberfest knock-off loses its charm real fast.” He flashed a good-natured smile, and Lance offered a light chuckle in return.

            “I’ve never been,” he said.

            “You should,” Keith replied. “Just to see.”

            Nodding, Lance swallowed. He tried to slide his hands into his pockets—an instinctive measure to combat his nerves—but the pants were Veronica’s, so on top of being tight, the pockets also sucked. He didn’t get far before he abandoned the action entirely, pursing his lips.

            “I’m gonna change, if that’s okay?” Keith said.

            Lance started. “Oh. Yeah, for sure.”

            They nodded.

            “Do you want something more comfortable?”

            Starting again, Lance looked down his front. “Oh. No, that’s okay.”

            “You sure?”

            He nodded. Keith nodded. They nodded, then let their breath out.

            “I’ll be right back… Make yourself at home.”

            Lance couldn’t stop friggin’ nodding. Just nod, nod, nod while Keith walked away. As soon as he’d disappeared down the hallway, Lance doubled over to breathe, but it didn’t ease the knot of nerves in his stomach. Why was he nervous? What the hell was there to be nervous about? He paced over to the couch and sat. The cushions were worn and comfortable, but the way they sank only made him more keenly aware of how horrible leather pants were after a night spent clubbing. Even the lingering scent of Krolia’s incense didn’t relax him. Why? _Nervous why?_

            Keith took forever. Lance wallowed, swallowing over and over again though his mouth was dry. He jumped when a door opened down the hall. Keith reemerged in a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt and a pair of short-shorts. He smiled at Lance. Swallowing, Lance smiled back.

            The couch sank deeper when Keith joined, tilting their bodies toward each other. Quiet for a moment, then Keith reached out a hand. His warm fingers brushed across the back of Lance’s neck. Lance swore he could feel the guitar callouses on Keith’s fingertips.

            “You’re nervous,” Keith said.

            Lance opened his mouth to contradict him, but no words came out. Soft, Keith smiled.

            “How come?”

            His tone was so gentle, and so unassuming. It soothed Lance’s rapid pulse like running water over a burn.

            “I don’t want to mess this up,” Lance said. Keith stayed quiet, but tilted his head to signal he was listening. “I like you. Too much, probably. I feel like this could _be_ something and I don’t want that to…you know…stop.”

            Keith nodded. His fingers stroked Lance’s neck, massaging the tension, and his touch was familiar somehow. Old and acquainted.

            “I don’t feel like this could ‘be’ something,” Keith said. “I feel like it _is_ something.”

            Lance’s heart stopped. At least, it _seemed_ like it did, but it couldn’t have, because his blood ran hot, and he went dizzy. Keith smiled, and Lance went double dizzy. Leaning forward, smiling still, Keith touched a modest kiss to Lance’s mouth.

            “Whatever you want to do tonight,” he said, “cuddle, make out, sit on opposite sides of the room—”

            Lance chuckled.

            “—it’s all fine with me. Just know—from my end—sex is very much on the table. And it will be until it is for you, too.”     

            Lance fell still. Keith kept smiling.

            In his head, this was not how Lance had pictured this moment. His imaginings had been cinematic—a flurry of heat and activity, stripping each other between frantic kisses, a kinetic meeting of uncontrollable impulses. A frenzy. Not this calm, considerate offer. Not this intimate, easy affection. Keith had seemed a bastion of sexual energy and attractiveness. A fantasy. Communication had never figured in. And yet…that communication put Lance at ease.

            “Oh, it’s on the table,” he said, returning the smile. He put his own hand on Keith’s neck and combed his fingers through that thick, dark hair. “Definitely on the table. Maybe even _on_ the table?”

            Keith laughed. “Ask me again when I haven’t played a concert in back-breaking heels.”

            They brought their smiles together in a couple of bubbly kisses then. A flood of warm devotion overwhelmed Lance, and he tried not to squeeze too hard as he held Keith’s head in his hands. He wanted to hold him, kiss him, crush him, just— _Jesus,_ Keith felt like everything good and gracious all at once.

            Felt like love.

            “C’mon,” Keith said, and he led Lance to his room.

            The space was cluttered and cozy. Bed unmade. Albums and posters and acoustic foam on the walls. Various piles of books and black laundry. An open closet full of black would-be laundry. Recording equipment. Crate after crate and shelf after shelf of vinyl. Turntable. Billy Idol’s _Rebel Yell_ propped up beside it.

            “Tell me,” Keith said, “if I do anything you don’t like.”

            “I don’t think _that’s_ gonna be a problem.”

            “I’m serious.”

            Lance’s eyes fell on him after taking in the room. Keith was, in fact, serious. Lance grasped his hand, drew him in close, and nodded, giving him a firm kiss.

            “You tell me, too,” he said.

            “I will.” Keith’s hands settled on Lance’s hips, and he looked up. “You want this, yeah?”

            “Abso-friggin-lutely.”

            Shaking his head, Keith laughed, but that sultry spark Lance had come to expect returned to his eyes. He rose a little to catch Lance’s bottom lip in his mouth and hold it gently between his teeth. At the same time, he unclipped the belt around Lance’s waist and let it join the rest of the black clothes on the floor. Lance took Keith’s face in his hands and pulled his lip free so he could kiss him in earnest. Kissing back, Keith undid the buttons on the borrowed pants.

            Lance should have known better with the leather. He should have thought it through, but he hadn’t, so when Keith slipped his hands around back and tried to take the pants off, they got stuck. Keith started to laugh, breath hot in Lance’s mouth, and another unsuccessful tug at the belt loops got Lance laughing, too. Giggling like a couple of idiots, they separated for a second so Lance could struggle out of the leather prison on his own.

            “I don’t think my sister’s gonna want these back,” he chuckled.

            Keith kissed him, hands sliding under the hem of Lance’s shirt and up his spine. “Keep them,” he said. “They’re sexy.”

            Smiling, Lance helped Keith out of his own shirt and shorts. His hands burned where they clasped Keith’s waist. He was more beautiful naked than Lance could have ever imagined—solid and smooth and so, so warm. Keith pressed their bodies together, kissing hungrily. Lance couldn’t help going a little weak.

            He nudged Keith a step closer to the bed.

            “You wanna top?” Keith asked, dusky and breathless. Lance nodded, nipping those words from his lips. “Good.”

            They went together—Lance’s arms hooked around Keith’s waist, Keith’s arms around Lance’s neck and shoulders. Keith was so warm and so perfect and just the right amount of pliable as Lance ran his hands up his sides when they settled. They stayed slotted like that a moment, kissing, Keith with that gorgeous, maddening music in his mouth.

            “Do you want— _hah_ —me to do it, or do you want to?” he asked, one of his hands landing with a thump on the bedside table.

            “Huh?”

            “…lube in the drawer…”

            It took Lance a second to piece the words together. He was too distracted by the blush that had taken to Keith’s face, the way his eyes fluttered open and closed. Then it clicked, and Lance straightened up to pillage the bedside table in an instant.

            “I can, if you want?”

            Flushed, Keith nodded and turned over. Heart hammering, mouth dry, Lance opened the bottle and put more on his fingers than he could possibly need. But then, confronted with the reality that was Keith’s flawless ass, he kind of lost track of what he was doing.

            “You good?” Keith asked.

            “ _Uh-huh…_ ”

            “Good.”

            Lance prepped him. As promised, Keith kept that line of communication open, and, _Jesus_ , Lance almost lost it listening to the sounds he made at a couple of fingers. It took time, but eventually Keith turned back over and looked up at Lance.

            “I’m ready,” he said. “Do you mind if we go this way? I want to be able to see you.”

            Lance kissed him fiercely. “Please.”

            He found a condom in the bedside drawer and put it on. Keith smiled when he got back into position, hooking one leg up over one side of Lance’s hip and pressing the palm of his hand against the other. He guided Lance in, and Lance almost lost it again at the note he sang.

            He was perfect and tight and perfect and beautiful and Lance had never felt so connected to a partner. Perfect, perfect, perfect, everything.

            “Do you want me— _god_ —to go…faster?” he asked.

            Keith shook his head. “No. Like this…”

            He pressurized his hand on Lance’s hip and directed him. Long and slow. Sixth-eighths time. It was so good. Lance bit the inside of his bottom lip and let his forehead drop down against Keith’s chest. Keith chuckled, running his free fingers through Lance’s hair.

            “Okay for you?” he asked.

            “ _Jesus, yes_.”

            “ _Hmm_ …”

            Keith’s fingers traced across Lance’s jaw and lifted his chin. Keith smiled when their eyes met, and Lance knew—with absolute certainty—that Keith was it. Lance didn’t have to look anymore, he didn’t have to worry, because the rest of his life was right here, wrapped up with him, and happy.

            Together they were gonna make such beautiful music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha, remember when I said it would take me forever to write this big chapters? Hahahaha...
> 
> (Send help, I can't stop.)
> 
> PS - Keith's motorcycle is the 1980 model if anyone was curious.


	3. Third Movement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LONG LAST!
> 
> Firstly, I apologize for how long this has taken me to write. My life derailed and then re-railed and then derailed again in the employment sector, so it's been a crazy couple of months. I hope the big-ass word count makes up for my turtle speed!
> 
> Secondly, you'll notice I've added an additional chapter! It'll be short, just a little epilogue to tie up loose ends, and I should be able to have that finished pretty quickly. Fingers crossed.
> 
> Thirdly, I don't want to spoil the story with the music selection for this chapter, so a link to the playlist and list of songs will be in the end notes for this chapter! 
> 
> Okay, that's all I have to say! HAPPY READING! <3

Lance woke to a weighted pressure on his back and a set of hands that massaged their way up either side of his spine, then along his neck. He stretched full-bodied, like a cat, and let out a contented sigh. Chuckling, Keith leaned down to touch a kiss to his shoulder.

            “Morning,” Keith said.

            A smile unfurled on Lance’s lips. “G’morning,” he replied.

            His face was a little squashed by the pillow, so he turned to get a better look at Keith behind him—pretty and perched on his lower back, legs straddled along either side. Now _that_ was a sight Lance could get used to. Keith smiled and leaned down again, this time to kiss a line up Lance’s spine. Humming, Lance reached to brush his fingers across Keith’s thigh.

            “You sleep okay?” Keith asked between kisses.

            “I slept great,” Lance replied. “Had a little oven to cuddle.”

            Keith gave a gentle laugh. “Yeah, sorry.”

            “No, s’nice…”

            Lance stretched again as Keith rolled the heels of his palms up his back, good and deep. Felt great. Felt loose. Felt _homey_. Lance smiled.

            “Hey,” Keith said, right into his ear.

            The breath was warm and tickling, so Lance couldn’t help but laugh. “What?” he replied, catching the crook of Keith’s knee with his fingers and returning the favor. Keith buckled a little, laughing, more of his weight falling against Lance’s back. Lance pushed into the pressure. The skin-to-skin contact was so nice, especially given how warm Keith was. Keith hooked his arms around Lance’s shoulders and brought his face in close.

            “Can I tell you something?” he asked.

            Lance was a little lost in inventorying every inch of where their bodies touched, but he had the wherewithal to nod and give an affirmative, “Hmm.”

            “Morning sex is one of my favorite things. If you’re feeling up to it?”

            Keith had him at “morning sex.” Lance perked immediately, an electric jolt going through his entire body. He was _awake_ now, that was for sure. Sitting up, he pushed onto his elbows and lifted Keith with him.

            “Feeling up to it?” he said, then made a mock scoffing sound. “Feeling _up to it?_ ”

            In a flash, he turned, hooked an arm around Keith’s neck, and wrestled him to the mattress. Keith laughed, and that laughter crescendoed as Lance pressed his lips to his sternum and blew a raspberry. Nipping playfully at his chest and collarbone, Lance made his way to Keith’s face so he could smile into those violet eyes. He brushed Keith’s hair back.

            “I think I can _rise_ to the occasion,” he said with a wink.

            “Oh my _god_.”

            Laughing triumphantly, Lance dove in and sucked his mouth against Keith’s neck to make up for the pun. Keith droned, pleasured. The vibration made Lance grin.

            “You should play brass,” he said. “Lungs like yours are wasted on strings.”

            “God, you’re _such_ a band kid,” Keith replied, but the bite had mostly disappeared from the statement because he was already half-gone, eyes heavy and lidded as he pushed his hips against Lance in measured, rhythmic motions. Lance matched him and earned another drone.

            “I’m thinking French horn…”

            “ _Lance._ ”

            “Yes?” Lance chimed.

            “Shut up.”

            Peppering kisses to Keith’s chest, Lance laughed. “Saxophone, thennn- _nah…_ ”

            Keith had shifted to press his hip bone against Lance’s dick and draw against it, pressured and slow. Lance’s eyes fluttered.

            “Okay, shutting up now.”

            With a laugh, Keith cupped Lance’s face in his hands and brought them in line. Their bodies moved in such beautiful rhythm, keeping perfect time. Keith drew Lance down for a kiss, and Lance obliged. They both released vocal sighs, and, in that haze of heat and happiness, the sounds seemed to harmonize.

 

They got a little frisky in the shower. And in the kitchen after. Krolia had left them a six-pack of Costco muffins—the poppyseed kind—from the supplies she’d purchased for her week in Arus, but it was easily eleven o’clock before either Keith or Lance put their mouths on food instead of each other.

            “Good thing I don’t have a drug test tomorrow,” Lance commented, leaning against the counter as he peeled the paper cup off the bottom of a muffin.

            “That’s an urban legend,” Keith replied.

            His thick hair was damp still, the floral shampoo strong and lingering. A smile pulled at the corners of Lance’s mouth as he remembered washing that hair. The smile widened when he caught the same scent coming from himself, and widened again at the particular “people-smell” on the hoodie and sweats he’d borrowed from Keith. Long story short, Keith smelled good. Lance made a mental note to steal the hoodie.

            “It’s not a legend,” he said. “The Institute of Environmental Science and Research confirmed that urine can test positive for morphine after you eat poppyseeds. It has to be, like, within twenty-four hours, but still.” He shrugged and took a bite.

            Keith picked up a muffin. “How do you know that?”

            “While Pidge currently holds the title for Queen of Random Facts, the crown was mine from summer 2015 to spring 2016.”

            “Pretty short reign,” Keith said with a grin. He pulled the top off his muffin and set the rest back in the cardboard tray. Lance gaped at him. “What?”

            “I can’t believe you would disrespect a muffin like that.”

            “Nobody likes the stumps,” Keith replied. “An entire episode of _Seinfeld_ can confirm.”

            Mockingly snide, Lance pressed his fingers to his chest. “ _I_ like the bottoms.”

            Keith rolled his eyes. “You would.”

            Lance pulled Keith close and let his hands settle on his butt. “I like _this_ bottom very much.”

            A wry smile on his mouth, Keith met Lance’s eye. “Dirty bird.”

            Lance kissed him. “Nasty boy.”

            “If you think for one second I don’t know that that’s what Jenna Marbles calls her dog, you—”

            Lance kissed him again, sucking the words out of his mouth. Keith hummed and wound his arms around Lance’s neck and shoulders. Lance pushed him against the counter, pressed their hips together, slipped his fingers under the top of Keith’s sweats to feel the warmth of his skin. Frisky in the kitchen again.

            “Do you have class today?” Keith asked, pulling back.

            “Oh. Shit.”

            Lance had kind of forgotten the rest of the world existed. He hadn’t gone home last night. He hadn’t told Hunk where he was. He’d already missed his first class, and was clearly on track to miss the next. It was a good thing Keith had said something, otherwise Lance probably would have dazed right through the evening and missed rehearsal for Wind Ensemble, too. Come to think of it, he hadn’t even checked his phone since Pidge had called the night befo—his _phone._

            “ _Shit!_ ”

            Keith startled. “What?”

            “My jacket, Veronica’s jacket! I left it at Wavy. Plaxum only gave me your helmet and sweatpants when we left!”

            Keith’s face went pale. His wallet and phone were also in that jacket. Neither of them had noticed, and he’d driven without a license on Halloween, only one helmet between them. They were lucky they hadn’t been pulled over.

            “What time does the club open?” Keith asked, already looking for his keys.

            “Not until, like, eight,” Lance replied. He dragged his hands down his face. “Hunk is probably freaking out.”

            “If we went there now, could we get in? Could you call?”

            “I don’t know the number! I don’t have my _phone!_ ”

            “We have to get in, Lance,” Keith said, voice low and angry. “I _need_ my phone. For _work._ All of my client notes and lesson plans are on it. And my time clock… _Christ._ ” He threw his hands up. “How could you not notice you weren’t wearing your jacket?”

            “You didn’t notice either!”

            “Have you _seen_ your shoulders? How the hell was I supposed to keep anything straight?”

            Both of them were pissed, but that was such a ridiculous thing to say that it made them pause. Lance snorted a little. Keith pursed his lips to hide a smile. The tension diffused in an instant.

            “Guess we’re just a bunch of horny bastards, huh?” Lance chuckled.

            “Can you blame me?” Keith asked. A sheepish grin accompanied a light blush.

            Shaking his head, Lance stepped forward and collected Keith in his arms. “It is so _unbelievably_ fulfilling to know you’re on the same page as me.”

            Keith smiled and pecked a kiss on Lance’s lips. “Right back at you, Boy Scout.”

 

The two of them finished eating and went upstairs, to the door on the back of the first floor apartment—Keith’s landlord’s. Keith knocked. Soft footfalls sounded inside. Lance put on his best “upright and respectable” expression. It was in his interest to make a good impression. They needed a favor.

            An older lady with green-grey hair and a thick, white turtleneck opened the door. Her enormous brown eyes were made all the more enormous by a large pair of glasses. Definitely a nature type. Well-worn crow’s feet fanned from those eyes as she smiled.

            “Hello, Keith.”

            “Good morning, Ryner, I’m sorry to bother you. Um, this is Lance…”

            “Hello.” Lance waved and offered a smile, which Ryner returned.

            Keith continued. “We left our phones in the city last night, and were wondering if we could borrow your computer to look up the number for the place? And your phone to call them, if that’s all right?”  

            “Oh, of course. Of course. Come in.” She stepped to the side and waved them through. “Go right ahead.”

            “Thank you,” Keith said, and nodded at her as he hurried inside.

            Lance was cautious crossing the threshold, not keen to invade a person’s home too quickly. Keith left him behind as he disappeared to wherever the computer must have been.

            Ryner’s apartment was beautiful. The back door opened onto a roomy space—all wood floors and rugs and plants. It was crisp and modern, but natural as well, made soft by the greens and browns and greys. A kitchen on one end gave way to a dining room, which gave way to a sitting area. Smiling, Ryner gestured Lance toward an archway.

            “Study’s through there,” she said. “On the left.”

            “Thank you.”

            They nodded at each other as Lance passed. He soon spotted Keith through the door to a room covered with books, but came to a stop in the hallway when his eyes fell on the most beautiful grand piano he had ever seen, all by itself in an open space across from the study.

            “She used to be a concert pianist,” Keith said.

            Lance startled, whirling around. Keith smiled from behind the desk in the study.

            “She’ll let you play it if you ask.”

            Stomach dropping into his shoes, Lance swallowed. He stared at that piano—so black and shiny and _gorgeous_ —and startled again when Keith appeared beside him.

            “Got the phone number,” he said, holding up a sticky note.

            “Great,” Lance replied, but the word barely left his mouth.

            He followed Keith back through the archway to the big room. Ryner had taken a seat on the sofa and was thumbing through a gardening magazine. Keith went to an ancient landline mounted to the wall with a curly cord and everything. He picked up the receiver, then smiled a particular smile at Lance.

            “Lance wants to know if he could play your piano,” Keith said to Ryner.

            Lance’s mouth fell open, and he glared at Keith in betrayal _,_ but he quickly wiped the expression off his face as Ryner looked up from her magazine.

            “Of course. You’re a musician?”

            He stammered for a second before finding, “Yeah, uh…trombone, mostly…I go to New Altea, but, um—I also do piano. A little bit. I’m not very good.”

            A kind smile graced Ryner’s mouth. “Go right ahead.”

            Great. Now he _had_ to play or else look like a jerk. Keith had dialed the phone number for Wavy in the meantime and was holding the receiver to his ear while it rang. Lance gave him the stink-eye as he passed to go through the archway. Keith stuck his tongue out.

            Back in the front room, Lance just stared at the piano. There were a couple like it at New Altea, but they were all in public spaces and Lance had never had the guts to play one. Too many virtuosos already tickling the hell out of those ivories. He would have made a fool of himself in front of people who actually knew what they were doing. People who didn’t stupidly describe playing the piano as “tickling the ivories.” He’d always practiced on the more modest upright pianos in the private rehearsal spaces.

            He sat on the bench, brushed his fingers across the tops of the keys. Not a speck of dust or a fingerprint on the whole thing. Just shiny, shiny, big and shiny. Jesus, _this_ was a piano.

            He might never get a chance to play another like it.

            So he did.

            The first thing that came to mind was “Black Coffee,” and one rule of jazz was “go with it.” He played those opening cords, and, high holy heaven, the tone was so rich. Lance shut his eyes to hear it better—and quickly forgot where he was.

            The slow, haunting melody surrounded him. Thick and heavy. He hummed the vocal part loud enough only for himself to hear. He played, and played, and played, entered another time and space entirely. He _loved_ jazz. He loved all genres, yeah, but he _loved_ jazz. Nothing took him away like jazz. Well, jazz and anything composed by Jim Steinman. Jazz was the reason he’d started piano initially. His desire to perform a Steinman song his motivation to fight through sounding like complete shit. Trombone came naturally, but he’d had to struggle for piano. If not for jazz…he probably would have given up.

            When Lance opened his eyes, he found Ryner leaning against the wall with a smile on her face—and Keith gaping at him in the entryway. Jumping, Lance stopped immediately.

            “That was lovely,” Ryner said. “You have a gift.”

            “N-no, I—”

            “I don’t give compliments where they’re not earned.”

            “She _doesn’t_ — _Lance_. What the hell?” Keith threw his hands out in front of him in a gesture of confusion. “You said you sucked at piano.”

            “I _do_.”

            “Are you _kidding_ me?”

            “N—”

            “No. Shut up. You’re a liar. Tell him, Ryner.”

            Ryner chuckled and stepped away from the wall. She came up to the side of the piano and laid a loving hand across the instrument. Then she fixed Lance with a look that was both stern and warm at the same time.

            “How long have you been playing?”

            “Three years,” Lance squeaked.

            Blinking, Ryner raised her eyebrows. She glanced back at Keith, satisfied, then turned that expression on Lance.

            “Like I said. A gift.”

            Lance opened his mouth to protest, but Ryner raised a finger and he fell silent.

            “But only if you _choose_ to nurture it.”

            She might as well have dropped the piano on his head for all the impact those words had. Smiling, Ryner patted the instrument and left the room. It took Lance a second to return to his senses, return from the route down which Ryner had sent him. A gift? A gift for piano? Choosing to nurture a gift for piano? When Lance came back to himself, he glanced at Keith, who was still standing in the entry.

            “I don’t want to hear you say you suck at piano ever again,” Keith said.

            Lance nodded.

            “Good. Someone named Florona answered at Wavy. She said we could pick up our stuff at the delivery bay door.” He gestured down the hall with his head, then walked away.

            Swallowing, Lance gave the piano one final look, then followed.

 

Keith unearthed Krolia’s old helmet from her closet and gave Lance one of his leather jackets to wear. Like the sweatshirt and pants, the jacket was a little small, but not unwearable. Plus it smelled like Keith and motorcycle and leather, so it was almost enough to make up for the weird energy that hung between the two of them for the duration of the ride. Keith steered his bike down the alley into the back lot between Wavy’s building and the one next door, then put up the kickstand and turned off the motor.

            “Are you mad at me?” Lance asked.

            Keith glanced over his shoulder. “You first.”

            Pursing his lips, Lance dismounted the bike. Keith followed suit. He took off his helmet.

            “I’m not mad at you,” he said. “I think you were being an idiot, but I’m not mad.”

            Lance scowled. “An idiot about what?”

            “Remember when you whined about not being good enough to start a jazz band?” Keith replied. “That.”

            “Well, that’s not really your call, is it?”

            Rather than bite at the fight-bait, Keith just smiled. He smoothed his fingers under Lance’s chin and unclipped the motorcycle helmet.

            “No. It’s not,” he said. “It’s yours.”

            Turning, Keith set his own helmet on the seat and walked through the parking lot toward the door marked Receiving. Lance watched him go, annoyed, but unable to maintain that annoyance in the face of such remarkable beauty. Stupid Keith and his stupid sexy ass and those stupid motorcycle gloves. Sighing, Lance took off the borrowed helmet and jogged to catch Keith up, shivering a little in the cold shade between tall buildings.

            “You really thought my playing was good?”

            Keith looked up at him. “Yes.”

            Such a simple answer. Not coated in anything, not over-inflated. Not trying to be something it wasn’t. It made Lance’s heart pinch, then soar.

            “Thanks,” he said, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

            Keith smiled back and laced their fingers together. They trotted up the stairs to the door and pressed the big buzzer mounted next to it. Seemed like forever before somebody answered, and Keith was about to buzz again when a heavy bolt slid open on the other side. Florona, gorgeous as always, opened the door.

            “You’re lucky we’re expecting shipments today,” she said, holding up Lance’s jacket. “Otherwise nobody would have been here to keep _this_ safe and warm.”

            Lance heaved a sigh of relief and accepted the jacket, digging into the pockets straightaway to find their phones and Keith’s wallet. All present and accounted for. He gave Florona a sheepish smile.

            “Thanks.”

            She grinned. “No problem. It’s good to see you.”

            “You, too, Flo.”

            Her eyes turned to Keith, and she gave him a smile as well. “We spoke on the phone, I believe. This one causing you trouble?”

            Keith chuckled. “Loads.”

            She smiled. “Good.” Eyes to Lance. “How have you been?”

            They chatted for a bit while Keith checked the contents of his wallet and looked over his phone. Satisfied, he joined the conversation in attention only. Then a ringing sounded down the hallway on the other side of the door. Probably some other idiot who had left their stuff at the club. Florona turned her attention to it, so they said their goodbyes and reiterated thank yous, and she shut the door.

            “The phones are dead,” Keith said, offering Lance’s to him.

            “Shit.” Lance took it, checking anyway. He clicked the home button a couple times, but the screen stayed black, so he tucked it into his pocket. “I don’t think I have time to grab my charger before class.”

            “It’s college. Somebody will let you borrow one, right?”

            Keith started back toward his bike, and Lance lingered by the receiving door to enjoy the view again. Keith stopped about halfway through the parking lot and turned to give Lance a knowing expression. Lance just grinned at him.

            “ _You’re_ the nasty boy,” Keith said.

            Shrugging theatrically, Lance trotted down the stairs. He tried to goose Keith as he passed, but Keith grabbed his wrist like a ninja and yanked it away, then stuck his foot right between Lance’s and tripped him. Lance would have gone straight to the asphalt had Keith not been holding onto his arm in a death grip.

            “ _Jesus!_ ”

            “Nice try,” Keith said. He let go, and Lance stumbled to regain his footing. “I’ll leave your ass right here in the parking lot, nasty boy. Do you want a ride to school or not?”

            He raised his eyebrows. Lance eyed him, weighing his options, then deciding to go for it.

            With a burst of speed, Lance darted forward and ducked to catch Keith’s waist on his shoulder, then heave him into a fireman carry. Caught off-guard, Keith yelped, then started laughing as Lance hauled him high-speed through the parking lot.

            “Help! Police! I’m being kidnapped by a killer clown!”

            “Don’t shout! We’re downtown!”

            “ _Police!_ ”

            Lance dumped Keith next to the motorcycle and wrapped one arm around his hips to hold him still while clamping his other hand over his mouth.

            “I’m serious,” he laughed.

            Quiet now, Keith smiled. Lance could feel it on his palm. He also felt Keith’s lips part a little, then pucker as he kissed Lance’s skin. Lance shivered, and his grip loosened just enough for Keith to take Lance’s hand in both his own and ease it away from his face, kissing his way up Lance’s fingers as he did. He sucked the tips just a little bit, then smiled.

            “ _Hoo boy…_ ”

            Keith chuckled. “Can I take you to school now?”

            Swallowing, Lance nodded. Keith grabbed Lance’s helmet off the motorcycle and pushed it against his chest.

            “Let’s go.”

 

The Suzuki’s noisy engine drew quite a bit of attention as Keith pulled up at New Altea. Lance would have been lying if he’d said he didn’t enjoy being “that bitch” for a second—dropped off at the prick school by a hot guy on a loud motorcycle. He dismounted and passed Keith the borrowed helmet.

            “Thanks,” Lance said.

            “You’re very welcome.”

            “I’ll text you later?”

            Keith smiled. “Please do.”

            Lance smiled, too, and leaned forward to kiss Keith goodbye.

            He hurried to class afterward, totally devoid of any appropriate materials, but in need of the attendance mark more than the notes. Luckily, he arrived in time to ask around about a charger. He left his phone plugged into the outlet at the back of the room, but at the end of class, when he went to retrieve it, his stomach dropped into his shoes.

            Twenty-six texts.

            Forty-two missed calls.

            All of them from Hunk.

            “ _Shit._ ”

            Lance returned the charger and left the building in a hurry to find better cell service. As soon as he had it, he called Hunk back. He chewed on his lip while the line rang.

            “Pick up…pick up…”

            A click.

            “ _Lance?!_ ”

            Lance braced himself. “Hey, man.”

            Hunk heaved a massive sigh, but it wasn’t exactly relieved. “Are you okay? Where are you? Oh my god, I was so worried. You’re okay? You’re okay, right?”

            “Yeah, I’m fine. I just got out of class.”

            “You’re on campus? Thank god.”

            Lance offered a slightly humorless chuckle. “Sounds like you were about ready to send a search party—dogs and all.”

            “I was, but you have to wait twenty-four hours to report a missing person.”

            Chilled, Lance fell still. He didn’t know what to say. What eventually came out was, “Jesus.”

            “You didn’t answer your phone, Lance. You _always_ answer your phone. It’s like the one thing you’re good at.”

            “Woah, hey. Let’s keep the personal attacks to a minimum.”

            “Where were you?”

            Lance didn’t know how to answer that either.

            “Lance?”

            “With Keith.”

            Silence on Hunk’s end.

            Deep, pregnant, furious _silence._

            Lance couldn’t bring himself to break it.

            “Are you kidding me?” Hunk said. His tone was dark red.

            “I wasn’t ignoring your calls, Hunk. We left our phones at Wavy and couldn’t get down there to pick them up until this afternoon, and by then my battery was dead.”

            Hunk huffed. “You do realize the more excuses you tack on, the less believable a lie becomes?”

            “I’m not lying!”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “Hunk—I’m sorry I forgot to text you, all right? I got kind of wrapped up in things with Keith and it slipped my mind. I really did leave my phone at Wavy. I _would_ have answered you. I _would_ have let you know I was okay.”

            “Would you, though?”

            Lance stammered.

            “Because I don’t think you would have, man. I know you’re mad at me. I know you know I think the thing with Keith’s a little shady. And I know how limerenced you are.”

            “Would you stop with the limerence thing?”

            “Open your eyes, man! Keith’s—”

            “You don’t even know him, Hunk.”

            “ _Neither do you!_ ”

            Lance squeezed his eyes shut. He took a deep breath. He let it out slow. He wasn’t going to yell at Hunk. He wasn’t, he wasn’t, he wasn’t. He wasn’t going to yell at Hunk. He bit the inside of his bottom lip and took another deep breath.

            “Would it kill you to let me have _one_ good thing in my life?” he said.

            Then he hung up.

 

Through his next class and into the evening, a sick-stomach mood hovered around Lance, weighing heavy on his shoulders. He slammed his locker door shut after retrieving his trombone for Wind Ensemble. He went straight to his seat when he arrived in the rehearsal hall, sat down, and started putting the instrument together in fuming silence.

            His hands shook. Overhead lights glinted off the brass as the pieces of his trombone trembled with him. He couldn’t quite get the connectors to fit together on the first try, and that only added to his irritation.

            The last thing Lance wanted was to be in a fight with Hunk. Especially when Hunk was already having a rough time. Especially when Hunk had been so _worried_. Worried enough to file a friggin’ missing person report. Hunk was not one for drama. He hadn’t exaggerated his concern. He’d called Lance forty-two times. _Forty-two_ —that whole time thinking something terrible had happened.

            And maybe, to Hunk, what had happened _was_ terrible.

            That unappeasable voice at the back of Lance’s head still echoed: _Hunk is right, Hunk is right, Hunk is right._

            Lance had only even known that Keith _existed_ for a little over a week, but that didn’t change the way he felt. He blew a frustrated sigh from his lips.

            It was such an aggravating dichotomy—being absolutely certain of Keith on the one hand, and acknowledging how absurd that certainty was on the other. Why couldn’t Lance blissfully ignore common sense? Why couldn’t he let things run their course without panicking?

            Then—looking at his own warped reflection in the brass on his lap—he realized that that certainty _was_ the source of his anxiety.

            He _knew_ Keith was it. How many times had he felt that? Too many to ignore. _That_ was why he was scared. If he knew Keith was it, and he screwed this up, or let it slip through his fingers, he would have to spend the rest of his life with that knowing. Hunk wasn’t _right_ , Hunk was _reasonable_. But Hunk hadn’t felt what Lance had felt. He—

            “Lance?”

            Jolting, Lance looked up to find Matt standing next to his chair. Matt’s eyebrows were drawn in concern, but he offered a small smile when Lance met his eye.

            “You okay, man?”

            Lance nodded, swallowing and finding his mouth dry.

            “Yeah,” he said on a hoarse voice. “I think so.”

            For once in his life, Matt didn’t pry. He sat down, got out his trombone, and chatted with other people, leaving Lance to himself. Lance continued to stare at the vague reflection in the curves of his instrument.

            Rehearsal did not go well.

            If he’d thought Coran had yelled at him for missing entrances when he’d been daydreaming about Keith before, he’d thought wrong. Coran yelled at him _now_. And the yelling did not help, and Lance couldn’t fix the problem, and pretty soon the whole Ensemble was seething with silent anger. Lotor in particular, smug and irritated at the end of their row.

            The glares people gave the back of Lance’s head as they packed up and left afterward were palpable.

            “Mr. McClain?”

            Lance looked up to Coran at the podium.

            “Stay after a moment?”

            Stomach twisting, Lance nodded. Matt patted his shoulder, then left with Pidge. The other musicians departed the rehearsal hall a little more quickly, knowing Lance was probably about to get his ass handed to him.   

            Coran motioned him forward, and the pair of them sat in the front row of chairs.

            “What happened today?” Coran asked. He crossed his legs and turned to face Lance, his mustache bristling as he pouted his lips a moment and slung an elbow over the back of the seat.

            Lance shook his head. “I’m really sorry, sir. I… Things have just been crazy lately.” Too crazy for words. “I got in a fight with my best friend right before rehearsal, and I think that just put me in a bad headspace.”

            Coran titled his head, eyes narrowing. It wasn’t a judgmental or a harsh expression. Simply evaluating.

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” Coran said.

            Lance could only nod.

            Drawing a deep breath in through his nose, Coran looked over the rows of risers that occupied the far end of the rehearsal hall. Sometimes the school held concerts in the room, but none of the audience chairs had been set up, so the risers were just strange, empty steps of space.

            “Mr. McClain, I think you’re a fine musician.”

            Based on the intonation, Lance assumed Coran meant “fine” as in “good quality” and not “fine” as in “adequate.”

            “You bring energy to your playing few people can match.”

            Lance braced himself for the “but.”

            “But, until you learn to channel that energy…” Coran shook his head, apparently not happy with his phrasing. He started over. “Lance, you have been a joy to have in my ensemble, and when you graduate, I will be sad to see you go. You have _such_ potential. I don’t think you’ve realized it fully.”

            Those words struck deep in Lance’s heart and twisted.

            “I make it a point to be honest with all my students. You know this?”

            Throat tight, Lance nodded.

            “After graduation, I’m not sure you’ll be ready to audition for symphonies. In my eye, you still have a long road ahead of you. That’s not to say you can’t walk it, and that’s not to say you won’t reach the end and be the best trombone player this side of the world—but…”

            That “but” again.

            “For you, I think graduation will be the beginning, and not the end, of that road.”

            Lance swallowed, and it hurt. His eyes were dry and stinging, and he hated that. He hated himself for wanting to cry, and he hated Coran a little bit for choosing today of all days to bring this up, for putting the future right in front of Lance and saying, “Look! Look at it! Look how uncertain and frightening it is!”

            “I want to help you be the best player you can be,” Coran said. “That’s my job as your teacher, but it’s essential that you meet me halfway.”

            If Lance opened his mouth, if he tried to respond, his voice would crack and he’d start crying and he was _not_ going to let that happen. So he nodded again, silent and swallowing.

            “Push yourself, Mr. McClain. I think you’ll be surprised what you can accomplish.”

            Patting Lance on the shoulder, Coran got up. Lance rose, too, after a second. He finished putting away his trombone in a daze and left the rehearsal hall.

            How was it possible for a day to go from waking up with Keith to fighting with your best friend and being told by your band director that you weren’t good enough to find a job after graduation? Four years wasted. Four _expensive_ years. The one consolation Lance had in that moment was that it wasn’t possible for the day to get worse.

            Then he ran into Lotor waiting for him outside the rehearsal hall.

            “I need to speak with you,” he said.

            Lance came to a dead halt and stared at him. Lotor gestured at the grouping of furniture near the building’s entrance. Together, they sat.

            Lotor drew in a deep breath, but it seemed so calculated and dry.

            “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to this decision,” he said. “It isn’t some petty reaction to your behavior today, or to our most recent rehearsal as a quartet. It’s something I’ve considered for a long time.”

            Lance tried to brace himself again, but he couldn’t. Not enough. Lotor’s next words came crashing down on him like a wave over the deck of a ship and swept Lance overboard.

            “I’m quitting the quartet.”

            Lance’s entire being emptied. He left his body, and while he was out, it filled with rage and hurt and confusion and fear, and when he returned, the beating of his heart and the rapid breathing of his lungs, the trembling of his hands and the twisting of his stomach overwhelmed his every fiber. He was dread itself.

            “You can’t,” Lance said, but his voice sounded hollow and faraway. “Lotor, it’s the _holidays_. We’ve got _gigs_. Gigs _you_ booked us.”

            “I’m aware,” he replied. “And I’ll make sure the gigs are filled, but it won’t be by you.”

            “ _What?_ ”

            “Don’t worry about the gigs,” Lotor said. “I’ll take care of them. Remove them from your calendar.”

            “No, you _ass_ , what do you mean they won’t be filled by me?”

            “It’s no secret we don’t get along, Lance.”

            “Then you shouldn’t have agreed to be in the quartet!” Lance threw his hands in the air, furious. “Say whatever you want about me, the whole world knows I think you’re a prick and you think I’m shit, but I’m not the only person you’re screwing over here. What about Matt? What about Rizavi?”

            “I would appreciate if you would tell them the news for me.”

            Lance fell still, but it was a stillness fueled by rage. He looked Lotor dead in the eyes. He held the guy’s gaze and dared him to rethink what he’d just said. Lotor stayed silent, but his eyes did flash with fear. Shaking his head, Lance got up, grabbed his trombone case, and went to the door, where he paused and looked back at Lotor.

            “Fuck you.”

            Then he left.

            It was already dark outside. Lance just walked and walked and walked, his legs pumping underneath him. He didn’t have a destination, but if he stopped walking, he’d panic. He’d have to face what had just happened, have to face the day. He picked up the pace, breath hard and fast and hurtful in the chilly November evening. Pretty soon, he couldn’t go any further. Tears rose in his eyes, tears that couldn’t be pushed down, and Lance gasped for air—the terror setting in.

            He got out his phone and called Keith instinctively.

            The line rang too many times for Lance’s liking. He could barely breathe, could barely see with the tears clouding his vision. When their lines connected, he nearly collapsed.

            “Hey, Boy Scout. Perfect timing,” Keith said. “I just finished up.”

            “Keith, I’m panicking,” Lance said.

            Immediately, the tone of Keith’s voice changed to something dark and protective. “What happened?”

            Lance could barely get the words out. “Lotor…god…Lotor quit the quartet? And—and Coran basically told me today that he doesn’t think—I have a future—and I forgot to tell Hunk where I was gonna be last night, and we got in this huge fight, and, oh my god, my life is falling apart.” Lance squeezed his eyes shut and the tears fell at last. His nose wrinkled, and a pathetic cry escaped his mouth.

            “Where are you?” Keith asked, firm and fierce.

            Lance had to look around because he hadn’t been paying attention. “I’m by the Alfor Memorial Building.” He’d walked across the entire campus.

            “Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

            “Keith—”

            “ _Stay there_.”

            Lance nodded. Another sob hiccuped out of him. “Okay.”

            “I’ll be there soon.”

            They hung up, and Lance paced miserably to a bench to sit down and put his head in his hands. He had no concept of how long it took Keith to arrive because his mind was whirling with the black abyss of bad news that had taken over his day. But that noisy motorcycle drew him out of it. Keith pulled up in the visitor lot next to the building and didn’t even turn the engine off. He just flipped the kickstand down, hurled his helmet to the seat, and ran to meet Lance as Lance stood up. Keith enveloped him in a hug so warm and strong, it made Lance cry all over again.

            “I’m so sorry,” Keith said softly, running his fingers through the back of Lance’s hair.

            Lance could only hold him, but he held him _so_ tight. Keith was steady. He stood there and hugged Lance and didn’t have to say anything. Lance let go of as much as he could, but there were still residuals even after his tears quieted.

            Keith didn’t let go. “Talk to me.”

            “I forgot to tell Hunk I was going to be with you last night before we left for Wavy,” Lance said, starting from the top. “He thought I went missing. He was gonna file a missing person report. I already told you he’s kinda…about you.”

            “Yeah.”

            “So we fought, and that sucked, and I know he’s going through something right now, and I just feel like shit about what happened, and because I felt like shit I played like shit during Ensemble rehearsal, so Coran pulled me aside and told me that I have ‘potential’ but basically that he thinks I won’t be ready to audition for symphonies for another who-knows-how-long, and _that_ sucked—but then Lotor was waiting for me and he told me that he’s quitting the quartet and he’s taking over all our gigs because we booked them through _him_ like idiots, and, god, I was so stupid to trust him.”

            “You didn’t know.”

            Lance sighed, feeling a little better—as much as he could, anyway. “I know, but…it seems like my fault. _I’m_ the one Lotor doesn’t like.”

            “That’s his problem.”

            “No, but…”

            Keith leaned back to look Lance in the eye. “Not all musicians get along. It’s just a fact. The three of you dealt with _his_ shit like professionals. He should have done the same with you. Regardless of circumstance. He’s an ass. If he wasn’t an ass, he wouldn’t have quit right before the holidays.”

            Lance glazed over in misery. “All that Christmas music…”

            Keith chuckled, wiping some of the lingering tears off Lance’s cheeks. “I know, right?”

            Groaning, Lance let his forehead fall against Keith’s shoulder. “I never wanna hear _The Nutcracker_ again in my life.”

            Keith laughed. “I hate ‘Carol of the Bells’ for the same reason.”

            “How would you even play that?”

            “Lots of pizzicato. It sucks.”

            Lance turned his head to nuzzle his nose against Keith’s neck. “Yeah, I bet,” he said, then frowned when his face touched the collar of a dress shirt. Lance pulled back and finally processed how Keith was dressed.

            A white button-down. A black tie. And _khakis_.

            “What the _hell?_ ”

            “What?”

            “What are you _wearing?_ ”

            “Lance, I work for rich people. I teach _violin_. I can’t show up to my clients’ houses in a Metallica t-shirt and a miniskirt.” 

            “Do you _own_ a miniskirt?”

            Keith grinned. “Maybe.”

            Groaning again, Lance pulled him closer and wrapped him up tight. Keith just chuckled. Lance rocked back and forth as he began to calm. Eventually, he admitted, “You look nice.”

            Keith hummed a laugh. “And you look good in my sweats.”

            The smile that spread across Lance’s face was unstoppable, no matter how terrible he felt.

            “Thank you,” he said, “for coming to get me.”

            “Anytime, Boy Scout.”

            They stood in the dark and the cold of the campus for a little while longer, silent. The air was a little bit damp, a little bit heavy, like it might rain. Lance figured that would be fitting. His whole life falling apart, and all. Well—every part save one.

            “You can come stay with me if you want,” Keith said. “Krolia will be up in Arus until Novemberfest ends next week. And she wouldn’t mind if you wanted to stay longer than that.”

            “You have the coolest birth mom.”

            Keith laughed. “Well, I didn’t get my ‘cool factor’ from either of my parents.”

            Pulling back, Lance took in a deep breath and offered Keith a smile. “I’d love to stay with you. I’ll need to go get some of my stuff though…and I should talk to Hunk.”

            Keith nodded. “I think that would be wise.”

            Lance gestured over his shoulder. “Tower 1’s like two minutes that way. I’ll head over and then meet you in the resident parking lot? You have to—”

            “Leave guest parking and go all the way around to North Campus Drive. I know, Lance. I went here.” He said it with a smile.

            “You’re petty.”

            “You like it.”

            Lance laughed. “I do.”

 

The elevator ride to the sixteenth floor seemed eternal. Lance stopped running through possible scenarios about halfway through that eternity. He had no way to know how Hunk would react. Hunk hadn’t been very Hunk-like lately. No simulation could match reality.

            Lance forced his legs to keep moving to the door, and forced himself to stay calm while he unlocked it and went inside.

            The front room was dark, but the door to Hunk’s room stood open, spilling yellow light into the hallway. Lance sensed Hunk’s tension at the front door opening the second he walked in, but he ignored it, forcing his way down the hall, too. He came to a stop in Hunk’s doorframe.

            “Hey, man,” he said. “I’m sorry for earlier.”

            Hunk was at his desk, studying, which was all he seemed to do lately. He looked up.

            “I shouldn’t have hung up on you,” Lance continued, “and I shouldn’t have said what I said. I’m sorry I made you worry. I didn’t mean to, I promise. You’re a good friend, and I’m sorry things have been so…bad between us.” Lance looked down so he wouldn’t have to see Hunk’s reaction. “I’m…um…I’m gonna stay at Keith’s for a little while. You know, give you some space. I’ll let you know if anything, like, happens, but…Keith’s a good guy, Hunk. I’m not just dicking around.”

            He slipped from the doorframe then and went to his room, grabbed a backpack and started collecting the things he’d need—clothes, pajamas, textbooks, homework, laptop. Phone charger. Eventually, he wandered into the bathroom to grab his toothbrush and stuff. That was when Hunk finally responded.

            “You don’t have to go,” he said. He nearly filled his doorway, blocking the light.

            Lance shook his head. “I know. I want to.”

            “Okay…”

            Lance lingered, ready to leave, but pretending to look for something. Waiting for whatever Hunk was going to say next. But he didn’t say anything. He turned around and went back into his room and shut the door behind him. Lance frowned at the wood, shutting his eyes and letting his breath out.

            “So much for that,” he whispered.

 

Downstairs, Keith was waiting in a spot he’d found right at the front of the lot. As Lance trotted up, he held out Krolia’s helmet. Lance took it with a smile and climbed on the bike.

            Balancing was different with a backpack full of shit, but they made it back to Keith’s place in one piece. Lance eyes caught on the front window on the first level—the one that overlooked the porch—as they traveled down the gravel drive. Through that window was that piano. That beautiful, beautiful piano. He hopped off the motorcycle once Keith killed the engine.

            “How’d it go with Hunk?” Keith asked. Lance followed him down the stairs to the front door and into the kitchen. As soon as he was inside, he took a deep breath of Krolia’s lingering incense.

            “I don’t know,” he replied. “I apologized to him, but…he didn’t really say anything.”

            “Is he mad about you staying over here?”

            Lance shrugged.

            “You didn’t ask?”

            “It’s best to give him space,” Lance replied. He took off his shoes and put them by the door, then set his backpack on one of the kitchen chairs. “I learned that the hard way. He’ll come around eventually. I think.”

            Keith gave him a sad smile. “I’m sorry.”

            “Not your fault.”

            “Doesn’t mean I can’t be sympathetic.”

            Lance smiled. He went to Keith and drew him into his arms, nestling their noses together, then giving Keith a kiss. “No, it doesn’t,” he replied.

            Keith kissed him back, sliding his arms around Lance’s shoulders, hands up his neck and into his hair. Lance relaxed at last, some warmth and reassurance sparking in his heart and easing away the fear.

            “Christ, you’re tense,” Keith said, squeezing the muscle that connected Lance’s neck and shoulders. Lance winced.

            “Ow.”

            “Loosen up.”

            “Which one of us is wearing a tie?”

            Rolling his eyes, Keith shook his head and moved past Lance through the living room. “Bring your bathroom stuff,” he said. “You can put it in here.”

            Keith disappeared down the hall, and Lance went to his backpack to fish out his various toiletries. They took a hot second to find in the unorganized mess, so by the time he met Keith in the bathroom, Keith had already rolled up his sleeves and started the bath and was digging through the storage under the sink.

            “Looking for the Mr. Bubble?” Lance asked with a laugh.

            In answer, Keith thumped a bottle of that Bath & Body Works stress relief stuff on the counter. The bottle said “bath foam” on it. Lance eyed it skeptically.

            “I don’t need a bath, Keith.”

            “When was the last time you took one?” Keith asked, standing up.

            “My point exactly. I was nine.”

            “Then you need a bath.”

            He picked up the bottle, then opened the lid and poured some into the tub where the water roared from the faucet. By then, the mirror had gone foggy. Precisely two seconds later, the most glorious fragrance Lance had ever smelled filled the room.

            “Holy _shit_.”

            “I know. Wait for it to fill a little more, then get in.” Keith set the bath foam back on the counter. Lance sidled up to brush his fingers down the inside of Keith’s arm.

            “And where are you gonna be?” he asked.

            Keith smiled. “Little spoon. If you want.”

            “See, if you’d said that first, I wouldn’t have poo-pooed the bath.”

            Shoving a hand in Lance’s face, Keith pushed him away. “You’re obnoxious,” he laughed, leaving the room.

            “Where are you going, little spoon?”

            “To get you a towel, nasty boy,” Keith replied from the hall, “so you don’t have to shake off.” He came back grinning, towel in hand.

            “Ouch.”

            Keith flopped the towel on the counter. “Woof.”

            They waited for the bath to reach a level Keith was happy with—which was more water than Lance had ever seen anyone put in a tub—then Keith turned off the water and smiled at Lance over his shoulder in this way that sent Lance’s heart about a thousand directions at once. The end of his tie dipped into the water, so he loosened it and slipped it off over his head. Lance took a hesitant step toward him.

            “Can I?” he asked.

            Keith nodded, so Lance moved all the way forward and unbuttoned the top of Keith’s collar. He worked his way down, already blushing, and blushing more when Keith slipped his hands up and around the back of Lance’s shirt. The pair of them pressed closer, kissing as they helped each other out of their clothes. Keith chucked it all into the hallway.

            “You first,” he said with a smile.

            “Not a very exciting catchphrase,” Lance replied, testing the water with his toe. It was hellishly hot, but it felt so good, so he put his whole foot in, easing his way into the water a piece at a time. As he settled, he looked to Keith at the counter. He had a rubber band in his mouth and was gathering his hair back. Lance’s heart pinched.

            “Jesus,” he said, covering his face with his hands.

            Keith laughed. “What?”

            “Could you stop being cute for, like, one second?”

            A smile. “No.”

            Keith stepped into the bath, and the way the water rose at just the addition of _one_ of his legs made Lance nervous that the damn thing was gonna overflow once he sat down, but it didn’t. Got dangerously close, though. The two of them barely fit, but Lance didn’t really have time to think about it, because Keith was gliding carefully through the water toward him, snuggling his body between Lance’s legs and resting his chest against his back.

            “You comfortable?” Keith asked.

            Swallowing, Lance nodded. Keith laughed.

            “Then relax,” he said and smoothed his hands along Lance’s thighs.

            “Stop teasing me, and maybe I will.”

            Keith pecked a kiss on Lance’s jaw, then settled, sliding down to rest his head against Lance’s collarbone. He shut his eyes. Lance wrapped his arms around Keith’s middle and did the same.

            As they lay there breathing, the tension gently ebbed from Lance—a combination of the water and the scent of eucalyptus and Keith’s quiet confidence. He might have fallen asleep except for the subtle motion of Keith’s hands along his legs and arms, the stirring of the water that kept him alert and attentive. After a while, though, Keith stilled. Almost like he’d fallen asleep. Lance opened his eyes.

            “Keith?” he said softly.

            “Hmm?”

            He titled his head forward to press a kiss to Keith’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

            Keith smiled. “You’re welcome.”

            Lance kissed his shoulder again, then his neck. Keith hummed, lifting a hand from the water to card his fingers through Lance’s hair. Lance tightened his arms around him, keeping his lips locked on his throat.

            “ _Hmmm_ , that’s nice.”

            Lance released the seal for a second. “Keep going?”

            Keith nodded, sinking into the water, so Lance lifted him and sucked his mouth against his neck. Keith gripped a hand on Lance’s thigh, singing a little more of that beautiful music.

            The warmth that filled Lance then came from his heart instead of the water. His dick, too, if he was being honest. Keith was just so… _hnm._ He had this cosmic effect on Lance that Lance couldn’t explain. The taste of his skin. The firm curve of his muscles underneath Lance’s fingers. The purr at the back of his throat.

            A couple kisses later, Keith sat up. A half-thought of concern that he wasn’t into it anymore crossed Lance’s mind, but Keith turned around and motioned for Lance to sit up, too. Once there was space, Keith straddled him and traced his fingers along Lance’s dick. He’d been half-hard almost the whole time leading up to then, and that was all it took to bring him the rest of the way.

            “This okay?” Keith asked.

            Lance nodded. “Oh yeah.”

            Keith leaned forward to kiss him and coupled that with wrapping his perfect fingers all the way around Lance’s length. Lance huffed into his mouth, kissing back, sloppy with sensation. He did his best to hold Keith up and help him keep his balance, but that was kind of hard to do when the guy was playing him like a goddamn double bass. He knew just the right way to apply pressure, just the right motion to bring a full-body moan out of Lance. A few times Lance shifted his hands in a lame attempt to return the favor, but then Keith would put on the pressure, catch his tongue or a lip in his teeth, and Lance would disappear under a fog of pleasure.

            Lance was so attracted to him and so close to gone already that he thought he’d come after only a little bit, but Keith kept him right at the edge of it. Pulling, releasing and repositioning, pressure again, all while he kissed with that signature enthusiasm. It was so wonderful it was almost torture, and it only made that moment of release all the better. Lance snapped, and his whole body went loose, and Keith actually had to hold him up to keep him from slipping under the water.

            “Careful,” Keith chuckled.

            “ _Jesus…_ ”

            Lance _thought_ Keith smiled, but he couldn’t really tell. He was too blissed out. The room was hazy, but maybe that was steam from the bath. Chuckling still, Keith settled Lance against the back of the tub, then climbed out. Lance barely registered that Keith had gone until he leaned over to give Lance a kiss.

            “Where’re you going?” Lance asked, trying to get a hand around Keith’s wrist, but they were both too slippery.

            “To dry off,” Keith replied. “The water’s cold.”

            Huh.

            So it wasn’t the steam.

 

They curled up together under the covers on Keith’s bed after double-checking their alarms for the morning. Lance settled on his back and Keith snuggled against him, head on Lance’s chest, arm draped across him. Lance wrapped an arm around Keith’s shoulders, smoothing a hand through his hair.

            There, in the dark, safe and secure with the first person who had ever made him feel safe _or_ secure, Lance began to wonder why he’d let that worry overtake him. Keith had felt like the future almost from the moment they’d first met. And the future was on the same page. The future was confident. The future was _good_. Keith was it. It, it, it. Had that “it” factor. That intangible something that just made it work.

            “Hey, Keith?”

            Keith drew in a deeper breath. He’d been right on the verge of sleep. “Yeah?” he mumbled.

            “I’m gonna start that jazz band.”

            Keith hugged him tight.

            “Hell yeah you are.”

 

**

 

Matt and Rizavi took the news about Lotor about as well as Lance expected. Matt nearly flipped the table in their rehearsal studio. Rizavi went pale and covered her mouth.

            “Are you freaking kidding me?!” Matt shouted.

            Lance shook his head. “I wish.”

            Matt did actually grab the edge of the table this time. His fingers flexed, knuckles going white. The plastic groaned with the force of his grip. He didn’t overturn it, but choosing not to do so looked like it took an overexertion of control. Rizavi hadn’t moved.

            “He can’t just _do_ that,” Matt said.

            “I mean, he _can_ ,” Lance replied. He’d cried all the tears he wanted to cry about it, worried all the worries. In fact, he was feeling better today than he’d felt in years. Like a weight he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying had lifted from his shoulders. “It’s not like we signed contracts. What would we even do about it? Whine at him until he agrees to come back? He won’t. One: stubborn. Two: heartless. Three: I don’t want him back.”

            Flopping into a chair, Matt ran his fingers through his hair. “Who _does_ that?”

            He looked absolutely bewildered. Frazzled, too. No doubt he was mentally recalculating his budget now that they wouldn’t have the money for the Christmas gigs coming in. Somehow, Rizavi had gone even paler than before.

            “You okay, Rizzo?” Lance asked.

            She slowly lifted her eyes to him. “How are _you_ okay?”

            “Oh, I’m not,” Lance replied. “I’m furious, but I had my panic attack about it last night.”

            She nodded, lowering her eyes. “That makes sense.”

            Matt’s knee had begun bouncing up and down as he thought aloud. “There are a couple other trombonists in the ensemble, but I think most of them have groups. Peterson might be interested, but he’s probably too shy to put up with us, plus even if we _could_ get somebody to fill in, it’s too late to start learning the music, much less to the level of _Lotor’s_ playing…”

            “Matt, I hate to burst your bubble, man, but we don’t _need_ another trombone to fill the Christmas stuff,” Lance said. “We don’t have any gigs.”

            Matt’s knee fell still. “Oh…right.”

            Rizavi shook her head. “He did this on purpose. He waited until it would be too late for us to do something about it—finding another player or booking our own stuff or any of it. He _wanted_ to screw us over.”

            That had been Lance’s thought all morning. He nodded at Rizavi. She clenched her fists.

            “We never should have had him join,” she said.

            “It’s not our fault, Rizzo. This was Lotor’s choice.”

            She lifted her eyes to Lance again, so he offered her a reassuring smile. She smiled back, but it was small and forced. Lance glanced at Matt, who had gone totally silent.

            “I’m gonna friggin’ club him with my slide next time I see him,” Matt said.

            The three of them laughed, which helped lift the mood, but not quite high enough to classify as “good.” Matt sighed. So did Rizavi. A certain somberness settled between them, and Rizavi shook her head.

            “What are we gonna do? I love playing with you guys, I don’t wanna stop…”

            “I guess we’re a trio now,” Matt replied.

            Lance nodded. “Yeah, we could be a trio. I…have an idea, though…”

            They looked at him.

            “Do you guys like jazz?”

            Matt’s eyes squinted as he scrunched his nose up. “That’s a stupid question.”

            “Okay—a yes from Matt. Riz?”

            Nodding, Rizavi thought for a moment. “I don’t know a lot about it, but I’ve liked all the jazz stuff we’ve played for class.”

            “What do our feelings about jazz have to do with your idea?” Matt asked.

            Lance took a deep breath, wondering if he was really ready to lay everything on the table. On the one hand, he’d only decided last night that he was going to do this. On the other, he’d been thinking about it for years. Right now, he had momentum. If he waited, that could fail. What he needed right now was a win, a step in the desired direction. What he needed was Matt and Rizavi on his team.

            No.

            He needed Matt and Rizavi in his _band_.  

            “So, I’ve been thinking about starting a jazz band,” he said. “I’m taking Lotor quitting as a sign that now’s the time, and I want you guys to be in it.”

            When he looked at Rizavi next, her mouth was hanging open. Matt had gone all glowy.

            “Are you serious?” Rizavi asked.

            Lance nodded.

            She squealed, kicking her feet, pressing her hands to her mouth again, but for a different reason than before. “Oh my god, I would _love_ to play in a jazz band! Especially _your_ band.”

            Lance’s heart swelled. “Thanks, Rizzo.” He turned his head. “Matt?”

            “Oh, my dude, it’s an obvious yes from me,” Matt replied, putting his hands together into a prayer symbol and raising them above his head. “Yes, yes, yes. But, I mean, three trombones do not a jazz ensemble make. Where are we gonna find other players?”

            “We go to music schools, Matt,” Rizavi replied. “Literally _everyone_ I know is a musician.”

            “Okay, but that doesn’t change the fact that to balance three trombones, we’d have to amass an army of other players,” he said. “We’re talking like twelve to fifteen people, at _least_.”

            “I’m not going to play trombone,” Lance said.

            Matt and Rizavi turned slowly from each other to face him, their eyebrows lowered and raised respectively.

            “What? So you’re just gonna, like, direct then?” Matt asked.

            Lance shook his head. “I’m gonna play piano.”

            Both of them physically reared. Lance had expected them to be surprised, but not, like, _that_ surprised. They stared at him in shock and disbelief. Rizavi’s mouth opened in slow motion until her jaw touched her collarbone. Matt’s eyes shined with the gears turning inside his head that moved so fast it was a miracle smoke didn’t come out his ears.

            “Are you gonna learn?” Matt asked.

            Again, Lance shook his head. “I have been. For like three years.”

            Matt thrust himself backwards in his chair so that it balanced on two legs and mimed a brain explosion with both hands as the chair tipped forward and landed with a thunk.

            “ _Dude, seriously?_ ”

            All Lance could do was nod.

            “Why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

            He shrugged. “I was embarrassed. I thought it would come naturally, but it didn’t, and I didn’t want anybody to know that I was bad.”

            Rizavi’s mouth still hung open. “I had no idea.”

            “Nobody did,” Lance replied with a self-effacing chuckle.

            Now the gears in Matt’s head turned at warp-speed. “Okay, so we’ve got two trombones and a piano. What else do we definitely need?”

            Lance pulled up a chair, and together the three of them drafted a list in Rizavi’s notebook of the instruments they wanted. Trumpet, saxophone, drums, and bass were musts. Other wind instruments went on a wishlist. They talked for a good twenty minutes about possibilities, and toward the end of the discussion, Lance found himself sort of looking in on it from the outside.

            How rewarding was it to see Matt and Rizavi’s excitement? How satisfying to know that they trusted his ability, both as a band leader and pianist, implicitly? How amazing that they already worked so well together? Lance’s heart twisted tight with gratitude and anticipation.

            This might actually happen.

            “We should practice,” Rizavi said, sitting up. “Get some experience under our belt before we start auditioning other people. I want to look like professionals.”

            “Agreed,” Matt said, “but, on the topic of auditions, how do we advertise those?”

            “We could put stuff up on campus?” Rizavi suggested.

            Matt nodded. “That’s a good idea. I bet most of the music stores downtown would be willing to post flyers, too. Lance, do you think Bounty Hunter would do that?”

            “Definitely,” Lance replied, nodding as well. “And we could talk to people in our ensembles, maybe even, like, Kolivan? I bet he knows tons of musicians since he owns Blade Base.”

            “Yes, yes, and yes.” 

            Rizavi clapped her hands and rubbed them together like she was trying to start a fire. “Oh my _god_ , I’m excited! Can we started now?”

            Another swell of happiness overwhelmed Lance’s heart. Forget Lotor. Forget Christmas. Forget auditioning for symphonies after graduation. Forget the fear of failure. He was gonna do this. He was gonna make this happen—by sheer force of will. The universe owed him, and it owed him big time. But, then again, the universe had sent him Keith.

            Lance had never really stopped to wonder why now. What had happened, what things had shifted in Shiro’s life that had made him decide to invite Lance and the others to that first concert at Blade Base? To tell them he had a brother? Did it matter? It was just…fate.

            Barely two weeks together, and already Keith had made Lance feel capable of taking on the world.

            “Yeah,” Lance said. “Yeah, let’s get started.”

 

They packed up their stuff and checked every rehearsal studio with a piano in the Alfor Memorial Building, but all of them were booked through the evening. Matt and Rizavi were ready to admit defeat when an idea struck Lance.

            “Matt, can you drive us to Keith’s place?” he asked, eyes alight.

            “Why? Does he have like a Casio or something?”

            Lance grinned. “Not exactly.”

            Ten minutes later, the three of them knocked on Ryner’s front door like a trio of orphans in a Dickens novel.

            “I’m just gonna voice it now,” Matt said. “I am incredibly uncomfortable.”

            “This porch though,” Rizavi commented under her breath.

            A couple of soft footfalls signaled Ryner’s approach, so Lance elbowed Matt to stand up straight. When Ryner opened the door, a warm smile crinkled her eyes.

            “Hello, Lance. What a lovely surprise,” she said.

            Her friendliness seemed genuine, and she didn’t look annoyed at the out-of-the-blue intrusion. Though, knocking on the door was one thing. Asking to borrow her piano again—with the addition of _two_ trombone players—was another.

            “Hello, Ryner,” Lance replied, making sure to return her smile with an authentic one of his own. “I don’t want to impose, so please say no if it’s not okay, but we’re looking to start a jazz band soon and are kind of in need of a place to practice? Just for today. All the pianos at New Altea were being used, and—”

            “You want to borrow mine?” A knowing smile crept onto Ryner’s mouth.

            Lance nodded. “If that’s okay?”

            “Lance, I would be _more_ than happy to share my home and my piano with your music. _Please_ come in.”

            She stepped aside and made a grand gesture with her hand for them to enter. Lance’s heart thrilled as he stepped into that open front room where the grand piano was waiting. Matt and Rizavi followed him inside, Rizavi squealing a repeated, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” at Ryner as she went.

            “You can thank me by practicing well and practicing hard,” Ryner replied. All three of them gave her vigorous nods. “Very good. Now tell me your names and what you play.”

            Matt and Rizavi exchanged glances as Ryner looked at them expectantly. Matt went first.

            “Um, I’m Matt. Holt. I play bass trombone.”

            “Lovely to meet you, Matt. I’m Ryner.” Her eyes flicked to Rizavi.

            “Oh! I’m Nadia, but mostly I go by Rizavi or Rizzo or Riz or whatever you want really.” She laughed, a little nervous. “Tenor trombone. Like Lance.”

            Ryner surveyed them both a moment, then nodded with approval. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” She gave a particular smile to Lance and left the front room.

            “This place is _amazing_ ,” Rizavi gushed, setting her instrument case down and unpacking her trombone to put it together in a hurry. “Keith lives here?”

            “In the basement,” Lance replied. He took a seat at the piano and brushed his fingers over the keys. “Ryner’s his landlord.”

            “She is unbelievably rad,” Matt said. “And also scary.”

            Lance laughed. “Tell me about it.”

            As soon as Matt and Rizavi had their trombones ready, the two of them gave Lance a firm nod. They looked absolutely determined to follow Ryner’s instructions to practice “well” and “hard.” Lance grinned. He was, too.

            They warmed up, which was altogether terrifying—playing the piano in front of his friends for the first time. About ten minutes in, though, Lance shook off those nerves in favor of excitement. In some ways, jazz was all about mistakes. About learning from mistakes. About crafting mistakes into something nobody had heard before.

            And they made plenty of mistakes during that practice. It was an entirely different experience improvising with Matt while playing the piano instead of a trombone. On top of that, Rizavi had never really improvised before, and it took her a while to settle in to the rhythm, but she found it. They all did, actually. It took a hell of a lot of trial and error, but the three of them were more than willing to work through.

            “Let’s try that key change again, maybe?” Lance said, looking up from the piano at Matt, who was looking out the front window. “What?”

            “Keith,” he replied.

            Then there was a knock at the front door, which opened a second later as Keith came in, wearing his tie and khakis combo, grinning from ear to ear. Lance hadn’t heard his motorcycle engine, but it was parked on the street behind Matt’s car.

            “I heard you guys from outside,” Keith said. “It sounds _great_.”

            “Really?” Rizavi squealed, awkwardly clutching her trombone to her chest.

            Keith nodded. “I’m guessing this is official jazz band practice?”

            He locked eyes with Lance as Matt and Rizavi nodded, and his expression was so proud, it made Lance’s heart swell all the way to bursting. The moment was interrupted by a loud gasp from Rizavi, however.

            “Will you play with us?” she asked.

            Keith blinked. “Right now?”

            Matt gave him a sheepish smile. “We could use a bassist.”

            Rizavi pouted her lips and batted her eyelashes. “Please?”

            Keith looked to Lance. Grinning, Lance nodded. Keith grinned back.

            “I’ll go get my bass.”

            Punching a fist in the air, Rizavi released a hissing, “ _Yes!_ ” which made Matt laugh. Keith chuckled a little as well, then found Lance’s eyes again to blow one of those subtle kisses with his lips. Lance returned in kind. A parting smile, and Keith headed down the hallway to go out the back door.

            Rizavi was so excited she was basically useless until Keith returned—which took a hot second because he had changed out of his khakis before coming back. Leggings, B-52’s _Hey, my name is Keith_ tee, hair in a bun, a shiny, red electric bass slung across his back and a mini amp in one hand. The transformation was kind of hilarious given how complete it was.

            He set the amp down, plugged it into the wall, and plugged his bass into it. He just looked _so right_ with an instrument in his hands. He caught the dreamy look Lance was giving him and smiled.

            “I don’t own a double bass,” he said. “Hope this is okay.”

            “It’s perfect,” Lance replied, and the pair of them smiled—yet again—at each other.

            After a little tuning and amp adjustment, the bass was ready. Keith looked to Lance, an expectant expression on his face. Starting, Lance blinked for a second before saying, “Oh, um, how about just, like, a simple walking bass line? B flat major?”

            “You got it.”

            Keith nodded, and Lance gave a couple instructions to Matt and Rizavi before getting started again. He hadn’t expected Keith to be so deferent. Keith was the superior musician in pretty much every way, and certainly had not only the dominant energy in the room, but also the comfort of the space being more familiar to him. But he _kept_ deferring to Lance—through the whole practice. He took direction, offered suggestions when asked, made sure Lance stayed the one in charge. Even though he was a band leader in his own right and probably could have run that practice better than any of them.

            Matt and Rizavi packed up around eight thirty, Matt offering to give Rizavi a ride home as they went out the door. Keith slung his bass off his shoulder and came to stand next to Lance at the piano, running his fingers through Lance’s hair.

            “Thank you,” Lance said, leaning his head back to look at Keith.

            “What for?”

            Shrugging, Lance just smiled. “Can I have a kiss?”

            “I don’t know, can you?” Keith replied in a nasally drone as he leaned over to peck a kiss to Lance’s lips. He hummed a little when Lance kissed back. “You ready for dinner, Boy Scout?”

            Lance nodded. “I need one more kiss, though.”

            Chuckling, Keith obliged.

 

They paid a thousand thank yous to Ryner, and she insisted it was nothing, but Lance knew over an hour of stop-and-go trombone noise was not nothing. Still, it was nice of her to say otherwise.

            He and Keith went out the back door and downstairs to the basement apartment. Keith put away his bass, and Lance settled at the kitchen table to start his homework, textbooks and laptop and notes out.

            “How was work?” he asked Keith when he returned to the kitchen.

            Keith retrieved a pot from a low cupboard and filled it with water. “Same as always,” he replied. “I nag students to practice; they think I can’t tell when they don’t.”

            “Scary violin teacher in his khaki pants,” Lance said. He flashed Keith a mischievous grin when Keith gave him a flat look. “You should wear your thigh-high boots. That’ll straighten them out.”

            Shaking his head, Keith just chuckled.

            The two of them relaxed into a peaceful quiet—Lance at work on a practice quiz for chamber music theory, Keith boiling noodles and prepping the rest of a meal. He hummed almost imperceptibly as he warmed some leftover chicken and tomatoes from the fridge. Soon, the smell of dinner mingled with the near-permanent scent of Krolia’s incense. Lance might have thought it was strange how at-home and domestic he felt, except things with Keith had stopped feeling strange at all. They just felt right.

            “You have to serve yourself,” Keith said, appearing at the other end of the table with a plate of spaghetti noodles covered in chicken and tomatoes and pesto, licking some of the latter off his fingers as he sat.

            “Okay,” Lance said with a nod. He finished the question he was on, then got up to scoop a plate from the stove. When he returned to the table, he opted to sit in the chair next to Keith’s—partially because all of his school garbage was spread in front of the other, but mostly because he wanted to be as close to Keith as possible.

            “Matt and Rizavi are in for the band, then?” Keith asked. He crossed his ankles around one of Lance’s under the table.

            Mouth full, Lance nodded. “Mm-hm.”

            “That’s fantastic. I can’t believe you got started so fast.”

            Lance laughed. “Well, _somebody_ very good at lighting fires lit one under my ass.”

            Keith put his hands up by his face and twiddled his fingers like he was trying to be creepy. “Scary violin teacher,” he said.

            They both chuckled, and that easy silence filled the kitchen once again. It was a warm silence, affection in place of words. They ate like that for a little while until Keith spoke again.

            “What are you gonna call it?” he asked. “Your band, I mean.”

            Lance straightened. “Oh.”

            The quartet hadn’t really had a formal name, but had billed itself as The New Altea Trombone Quartet when necessary. The four of them hadn’t been able to agree on anything else— _well._ Matt and Lance and Rizavi had agreed on plenty. It was Lotor who had hated everything they’d come up with. Not having him around was going to be a blessing, even if it did mean they were down one gifted player and his access to rich people who hired brass ensembles for their various parties.

            “I don’t know,” Lance answered after a moment’s thought. “Most jazz ensembles are like ‘Band Leader and His Band’ and I’m not sure I want to do that.”

            “Come on,” Keith laughed. “You don’t want to be Lancey Lance and the Funky Bunch?”

            Lance almost choked on his spaghetti. “Oh my _god._ ”

            Keith grinned. “Good one, right?”

            “My sister calls me Lancey Lance.”

            “It’s perfect, then.”

            Chuckling, Lance gave Keith some side-eye and went back to his food. “No.”

            “Mr. McClain and the Shit-Disturbers.”

            “I’m not putting a curse word in my band name.”

            “Boo,” Keith replied, sticking his tongue out. “You’re no fun.”

            “Of course not,” Lance replied, primly spearing a piece of chicken and shoving it in his mouth. “I’m upright and respectable.”

            Right then—a bell went off in the universe. They both heard it. Their eyes widened, and they stared at each other, but there was no denying that bell. They say up straight. Lance swallowed.

            “Upright and respectable,” he said again in a reverent whisper.

            A giant grin spread across Keith’s mouth.

            “Yes,” he said.

            Lance couldn’t get the ring of that bell out of his head— _upright and respectable, upright and respectable, upright and respectable._ His mind moved a million miles a minute, hoping Matt and Rizavi and whoever else they added would like it, knowing they had to because how could they _not?_ He and Keith chatted excitedly about the possibilities until they finished dinner. Lance almost had to lock Keith in the bathroom to keep him from doing the dishes after. He pouted until Lance set the big pot on a dish towel to dry.

            “You cooked, I clean. Them’s the breaks,” Lance said, wiping off his hands.

            Keith just grumped at him from the kitchen table, to which he’d been relegated. “You have homework.”

            “Tomorrow’s Friday,” Lance replied. “My shit’s not due until Monday, _plus_ I’m a houseguest. I’m not just gonna sit there while you do all the work. Gotta pull my weight.”

            “You and I have very different definitions of what a houseguest is, then.”

            “Boo-hoo. You fed me. You’re letting me stay here. This is the least I can do.”

            Cheek propped on the palm of his hand, elbow on the table, Keith pursed his lips. Lance could see him holding back whatever it was he wanted to say purely because he knew it would be pointless. They were both stubborn. Lance had a feeling a good portion of their relationship was going to be “agree to disagree” about stupid shit like—wait.

            Relationship?

            Lance had told Nyma that Keith felt like his boyfriend, and he _did_ , but that wasn’t a one-sided decision, and they’d never talked about it. Lance opened his mouth, but some little voice in the back of his mind whispered a warning that now was not the time.

            “Luxite playing this weekend?” Lance asked instead.

            “Just me and Romelle,” Keith replied. “She wanted to try some bossa nova stuff while everybody else is away, so it’ll be pretty chill. What’s your work schedule?”

            “I’m on Friday and Saturday,” Lance replied with a frown.

            Keith nodded. “I’ll get you the spare key so you’re not, like, locked out.”

            “Sunday I’m all yours, though.”

            “I told Takashi I’d go to brunch with him and Adam,” Keith said, looking up and looking desperate. “Please come.”

            Laughing, Lance slung a dish towel over his shoulder and sauntered across the kitchen toward Keith. “Oo, Sunday brunch double date. How _faaancy_.”

            “It’s the gayest thing ever.”

            “Are we going to the country club?” Lance joked. He flipped the towel from his shoulder and wiggled it in Keith’s face, laughing, but faltering when he noticed that Keith was blushing. Lance gasped. “ _No._ ”

            “I let Takashi pick…”

            “He _would!_ ” Lance cracked up. “Does the place have a dress code?”

            Blushing harder, Keith nodded.

            “ _Yes_ , oh my god!” Lance hurled the dish towel at the floor and threw his hands up in the air like he’d just scored a touchdown. “This is the greatest day of my life. Dress code country club Sunday brunch double date with the gays. Score one for the bucket list.”

            “ _That’s_ on your bucket list?”

            Lance squared his shoulders. “Hell yeah. Wanna know what _else_ is on my bucket list…?”

            “Don’t—”

            But Keith could do nothing to silence the Tim McGraw. Lance boxed him into his chair and sang at the top of his lungs in a terrible Louisiana accent, “ _I went sky diving, I went Rocky Mountain climbing._ ” He pulled Keith to his feet and wrangled him into a dance position. “ _I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fumanchu._ ”

            Keith softened, let Lance lead. Lance held him close as they danced in the kitchen.

            “ _And I loved deeper, and I spoke sweeter, and I gave forgiveness I’d been denying._ ”

            When Lance leaned back to look at Keith, he found he couldn’t quite describe the expression in Keith’s eyes without using a word he was a little bit afraid of. A word he’d been feeling himself, but wasn’t ready to say.

            “ _And he said, someday I hope you get the chance to live like you were dying._ ”

            A gentle smile lit Keith’s mouth, and he lifted a hand to stroke Lance’s cheek. Lance leaned down so they could kiss. Both of their feet fell still.

            “You’re something else, Lance McClain,” Keith said softly.

            “Something good, I hope,” Lance replied, nuzzling his nose.

            Keith laughed, though the sound was barely more than a breath. His arms settled around Lance’s neck and shoulders. The weight was both warm and welcome. Lance relished in it.

            “The best,” Keith said.

 

**

 

Luckily, Friday afternoons at Bounty Hunter were quiet because Lance and Nyma spent a good two hours drawing logos for Upright & Respectable. Nyma did most of the work, but Lance had a lot of feedback and probably too many ideas. By the time Rolo came in and half-scolded them for slacking, they had about a thousand designs.

            “Which one do you like, Rolo?” Nyma asked, sliding him the sheet of paper she’d been doodling on.

            Rolo picked it up, sniffed, and cast an appreciative eye across the collection of stylized text. He set the paper on the front counter and leaned over it like he was going to get a better look that way.

            “What’s it for?” he asked.

            “Lance is starting a jazz band,” Nyma replied with a grin.

            Rolo lifted his head. “Really?”

            Lance nodded. “I was actually hoping you’d be okay with me putting up some posters for auditions around the store?”

            “Yeah, yeah, of course, man, no problem,” Rolo replied. He nodded, though he’d turned his face back to the counter. A second later, he looked up again. “That’s awesome. Did I know you played jazz?” He gave Lance a lopsided smile, then put his finger on one of the logo designs. “That’s your guy.”

            Both Lance and Nyma hurried to see which one he’d picked as he slinked away. It was one of the off-hand designs Nyma had knocked out in a couple of seconds and then ignored. Simple, narrow text in block capitals. “Upright” and “Respectable” stacked on top of each other, a miniature stylized ampersand between them with a line on either side. Nyma had drawn it so small, they’d both forgotten about it, but Rolo had singled it out on the busy page.

            “Huh,” Nyma said.

            She grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and drew the logo again, bigger this time, being extra careful with the lines.

            It was gorgeous.

            “I swear he’s a savant or something…” Nyma said, shaking her head.

            Lance couldn’t get his eyes off the logo. He’d reached a point now where he didn’t care if the others didn’t like the name. This was his band. This was his band’s logo. He was gonna make posters with this logo to advertise auditions for _his band_. He could say that over and over again, a thousand times, and he’d never get tired of it. Those two words would never cease to excite him: His. Band.

            He did have to get back to work, though—dusting shelves and sweeping under the displays, sorting vinyl and cassettes and CDs, helping customers with the expensive shit in the glass cases. By the time Lance’s shift ended at nine, Nyma had polished the logo design. Lance cradled the piece of paper in his lap the whole bus ride back to Keith’s, too afraid to touch it in case he wrinkled the edges.

            Keith got in late. Lance could barely hear him in the kitchen, then the bathroom, trying and succeeding at being quiet while he got ready for bed, probably assuming Lance was asleep. When he came into his room and found Lance up, a flicker of surprise crossed his face.

            “Oh,” he said.

            “You’re like a ghost,” Lance chuckled.

            A shrug. “I got good at sneaking while living with my parents. I saw the band logo on the table. It looks great.”

            “Thanks.”

            Keith went to his dresser and pulled a pair of shorts out, which he changed into without apology or hesitation, shedding the black he’d been wearing for his concert and adding it to the pile on the floor. Lance tried not to watch. Keith chuckled when he noticed Lance blushing with his gaze fixed on the wall.

            “It’s all right,” Keith said.

            Lance shook his head. “There are different kinds of naked, man, you know?”

            With a snort, Keith climbed onto the bed. “No. I do not.”

            He elbowed his way as high as Lance’s middle where he sank to rest his chin on Lance’s belly, wrapping his arms around like he would around a pillow. Lance couldn’t help a surge of warmth and happiness any more than he could help reaching out to brush Keith’s hair away from his eyes.

            “Like how naked with socks on feels more naked than no socks,” he said.

            Quiet, Keith raised an eyebrow.

            “Tell me I’m wrong.”

            “And you have the nerve to call _me_ a weirdo,” Keith replied.

            He sat up and slipped his hands under Lance’s shirt, dipping low again to touch a line of kisses to the now-exposed skin. The gesture completely obliterated Lance’s rebuttal. He hunted for something else to say.

            “How was…” He had to swallow to keep his voice under control as Keith kept kissing. “How’d the set go?”

            “Terrible,” Keith replied. He’d kissed his way to Lance’s chest by then and hastily tugged Lance’s shirt off over his head. “Romelle bailed. Stomach flu. I had to fill the whole thing.”

            “Jesus.”

            “Yeah.” He sucked his mouth against Lance’s collarbone. “I called it after half an hour.”

            “Why?”

            “Nobody wants to listen to me for that long.”

            His face started to tip down to meet Lance’s neck, but Lance caught his cheeks in his hands and kept him upright. Frowning, he looked Keith dead in the eyes.

            “That’s not true,” he said.

            Keith made a face of mocking disagreement, as if to say, “What do you know?” The expression deepened Lance’s frown. He didn’t let go of Keith’s cheeks.

            “It’s _not_.”

            “Lance—”

            “Remember when you told me you never wanted to hear me say I sucked at piano ever again? Yeah, well, I’m invoking a new rule for you. _I_ don’t want to hear _you_ say that people don’t want to listen to you play. Okay?”

            “Nice rhyme.”

            “I’m serious.”

            Something in Keith’s eyes shied back. His expression turned raw, exposed and open. Hurt a little bit, maybe. Not at what Lance had said, but the situation surrounding it. Lance had never seen him so vulnerable before. It was startling. Along with all the makeup and unabashed confidence—the gorgeous, genuine Keith the world encountered day-to-day—there was a soft one, a scared one. Lance felt stupid for not realizing it before. Of course Keith was afraid and self-deprecating. He was _human_.

            “You’re goddamn talented, Keith. And I’m not just saying that.”

            Keith’s brows pulled together, and his eyes flicked back and forth, searching Lance’s face for a lie he wouldn’t find. Softening, he lifted himself up and moved forward to press their mouths together.

            “You promise?” he whispered, breath warm across Lance’s lips.

            “I promise.”

            “ _Mmnm…_ ”

            That note was long and sad—a strange sort of vocalized sigh. Keith leaned into Lance, his tongue barely dipping between his lips in a bizarre but intimate kiss. Lance held him tight and didn’t exactly refrain from squeezing as hard as he wanted as Keith settled down. Keith nestled closer in response.

            “I’m glad you’re here, Lance,” he mumbled against Lance’s shoulder.

            Lance pressed a long kiss to his hair. “Me too.”

 

**

 

Saturday passed in a frenzied succession of practicing on Ryner’s piano, making an auditions poster, practicing on Ryner’s piano again, work, then finishing the poster and texting a picture to Matt and Rizavi.

                                                                                           _Thoughts?_

            Rizavi replied first.

                        _wait is that our name_

_oh my god I love it_

_the poster looks so pretty_

_ahhhhhhhhhh_

_Matt?_

About fifteen minutes later, an absurd number of clapping emojis appeared from Matt’s end—so many that Lance had to scroll four or five times to even get to the bottom of the text. Lance grinned, and wore that grin right into Sunday. He practically woke up smiling.

            “You can’t be that excited about brunch,” Keith commented after Lance kissed him awake. In response, Lance just kissed him again, which quickly turned into more than kissing because, let’s face it, Lance loved morning sex, too.

            They ran into a problem later, though, when none of Keith’s dress-code-appropriate clothing fit him. As hard as they tried to fudge it, rolling the sleeves on a too-small dress shirt could only accomplish so much. Any and all nice pants were just a no-go. And Lance hadn’t brought much beyond basics with him.

            “No. I hate it,” Keith said, pointing out the high-riding cuffs on the pants Lance had managed to weasel into. “Take them off.”

            “Mmm, _okay_ ,” Lance replied. He tried to stick his butt out, but the pants didn’t allow for any movement, so mostly he succeeded in pinching everything. “ _Ow_.”

            Unsympathetic, Keith chucked a pair of shorts at him. “Try these.”

            They were worse.

            After a long look down his front, Lance took an awkward stance with his feet apart and his hands clasped in front of his stomach.

            “You know I had to do it to em,” he said.  

            Keith did _not_ want to laugh, but he couldn’t hold it in. A snort broke through his pursed lips and brought a stifled smile out with it.

            “You absolute piece of shit,” he said.

            Grinning, Lance tossed Keith his phone. “Take a picture and send it to Pidge. If I can’t have Random Facts, I want my Meme Queen crown back.”

            And though Pidge _thoroughly_ enjoyed the photo, and even sent back an edit of him standing at the back of a picture of Obama from, like, 2008, Lance still didn’t have anything to wear.

            “Jeans it is, I guess,” he said with a shrug.

            Keith shook his head. “You won’t just get dirty looks. They _literally_ won’t let you through the lobby.” He bent over to dig through his piles of laundry, searching, though the effort was pointless.

            Lance scowled. “Maybe I _don’t_ want to go to brunch with the gays.”

            Keith’s spine made an actual cracking noise as he snapped straight. “No.”

            Laughing, Lance grabbed his hand and tugged him forward into his arms. “I’m not gonna abandon you,” he said. “Relax. Just—this place sounds…”

            “Like an elitist hellscape? That’s because it is.”

            Keith tried to pull free to keep hunting for clothes, but Lance wouldn’t let go.

            “Keith,” he said. “We’re not gonna find anything.”

            “Do you have stuff at your apartment, then?” Keith asked, chewing his bottom lip.

            Lance shook his head. “Just my concert blacks—and no, I politely refuse to wear a tuxedo to gay brunch.”

            Keith’s mouth fell closed, the question unasked. A pouty, dramatic expression overtook his features, and he threw up his arms and shoulders in a shrug. “What, then?”

            “Well…”

            Lance did not know how the suggestion he was about to make would go over. He would have liked to hold off, but they were out of options—and all of Lance’s nice clothes were at his parents’ house. Bracing himself for whatever discomfort he was bound to unearth, eyes on the floor, Lance took a breath and plowed ahead.

            “If you’re okay with it, we could stop by my parents’ on the way? All my dress shirts are there, and it probably wouldn’t add that much time to the drive. You wouldn’t even have to come in if you don’t want, but they’d love to meet you…”

            He looked up. Keith’s eyes were wide—surprised, but in that same adorable and innocent way as they had been about the birthday present.

            “Really?” he asked, voice small.

            Lance nodded. “Of course.”

            “You told them about me?”

            “Veronica is very invested,” Lance replied.

            He tried to laugh, but Keith pulled him into a series of bright kisses instead. Lance went lightheaded at the sudden show of affection. He almost didn’t remember to kiss Keith back.

            “I’ll come in,” Keith said, close, nodding. “I want to meet your family.”

            The swelling of Lance’s heart manifested as a grin. He squeezed Keith’s hips.

            “They’re gonna love you.”

 

Half an hour later, Keith was ready to go. Black button down, khakis, his hair arranged to cover his industrial piercing. He and Lance climbed onto the Suzuki and headed off to the west side of the valley—and Lance’s childhood home.

            The longer they rode—the closer they got—the more and more pleased with the situation Lance became. With the two of them showing up unannounced, his family wouldn’t have time to plan some horrible hoopla. Not only that, but there was a distinct time limit on how long they could stay. Lance needed to change and leave for brunch. If things got awkward, they had a parachute. Maybe the best part about it, though, was how spur-of-the-moment the decision had been, how facilitated by necessity. Lance didn’t have any room to overthink this.

            But that didn’t mean his heart didn’t skip a nervous beat when he and Keith pulled up in front of the house.

            Going by the cars parked in the driveway and on the street, at least Veronica and Marco were home, but it was Sunday, so the only one who had a firm reason to be out was Rachel. On top of that—with it _being_ Sunday—it was possible Luis and Lisa and their monsters would be over as well. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all…

            Keith killed the engine, and Lance hopped off first. Both of them shed their helmets as they headed up the driveway. Lance punched in the code for the garage door, so it rumbled up, but got stuck halfway, per the usual. Chuckling, Keith ducked under the bottom. Taking a deep breath, Lance followed.

            He led the way around the clutter and the hatchback to the door into the house. Through it, the muffled sounds of the television were audible. No turning back now.

            Lance opened the door.

            “It’s me,” he yelled, which turned out to be unnecessary as his mom and Veronica were standing right there in the kitchen sipping mugs of coffee. “Oh. Sorry.”

            Veronica scowled at him, but his mom laughed.

            “You scared me, _cariño_ ,” she said, laughing still. “How nice to see y—”

            Her eyes fell on Keith and went wide. Her jaw fell loose. Lance didn’t blame her. Keith kind of had that effect on people. In the next instant, she’d recovered.

            “ _Ay, alabao, usted es muy lindo!_ ” she said, squealing, darting forward, nearly spilling her coffee all over the floor. The next thing Lance knew, she was smacking him upside the head and saying, “ _Me tienes hasta el último pelo._ Why didn’t you show us a picture?” Lance didn’t even get a chance to respond before his mom had pushed him out of the way and taken Keith’s hand in her own. “You must be Keith. I’m Teresa. It’s so lovely to meet you.”

            Keith chuckled, startled, but smiling. “You, too.”

            “You’re a musician, yes? Remind me what you play…”

            She dragged Keith toward the table in the breakfast nook, intent on getting him to sit down, but Lance grabbed Keith’s other hand and pulled him free.

            “We’re on a tight schedule, Mami,” he said. “We’re meeting Keith’s brother for brunch and I needed a nice shirt.”

            “Oh, so this house is your closet, _cariño?_ ”

            She raised her eyebrows and gave him “the look”. Pursing his lips, Lance huffed, but buckled. Keith just grinned. Lance could tell the guy was trying not to laugh. Satisfied, Teresa plopped at the breakfast nook and patted the seat beside her.

            “You want some coffee, _lindo?_ ” she asked as Keith sat. “Veronica, get him some coffee.”

            Veronica eyed Lance as she poured a mug for Keith and Lance moved through the kitchen to go downstairs and change.

            “Well played,” she said.

            Lance grinned.

            The basement was a mess, so it was probably a good thing his mom had snagged Keith. Lance made his way back to the room he used to share with Marco. The light was on, and his brother was inside, sitting propped against the wall on top of his bed. He had a magazine in his hands, soft music playing on his complex custom stereo. He barely looked up as Lance knocked on the doorframe and entered.

            “Who’s here?” he asked.

            “Keith,” Lance replied. “We’re meeting his brother for brunch. I needed a dress shirt.”

            Marco chuckled. “Where are you going? The country club?”

            Dramatically throwing open the closet doors, Lance replied, “ _Yes_.”

            A bark of laughter, and Marco lifted his eyes from the magazine, beaming. “No way!”

            “Yes way.” Lance flashed him a grin before diving into the mess of clothes to find his own at the back.

            “Damn. I think that’s gonna put you ahead of me on bucket lists.”

            “It’s gonna do exactly that,” Lance replied. He couldn’t get a handle on anything with one hand, so he set his borrowed helmet on his bed, then dove back in.

            “Does…Keith have a motorcycle?”

            “Yeah,” Lance answered, his head inside the closet. He finally found a decent shirt that wasn’t wrinkled and pulled it out. “Why?”

            Marco was staring at the helmet. “Can I look at it?”

            Lance laughed. “Yeah, definitely. Keith got assaulted by mom upstairs, so you’ll have to wrangle him out of her grasp, but I’m sure he’d be happy to show you the bike.”

            Marco ditched the room so fast, he practically left a dust cloud behind him. Chuckling, Lance got changed.

            He tried to be fast. One, to rescue Keith from his family. Two, to make it to brunch on time. However, he also wanted to look good. Had to make a positive impression on the country club _and_ Shiro. Though, admittedly, that last thought was kind of stupid seeing as Lance and Shiro had known each other for years.

            By the time Lance returned upstairs, the number of McClains at the breakfast nook had more than tripled. His mom, Veronica, and Lisa were all sitting, chattering at Keith and listening in turn. Nadia had materialized, too, perched in her mother’s lap. She had her sketchbook out and was desperately trying to show it to Keith in the bustle. Then there were Pop-Pop and Marco, the two of them standing behind Keith’s chair, Marco trying to get Keith’s attention about as desperately as Nadia was. Keith had a mug of coffee in his hand, and he looked over as Lance approached. The smile he offered was big and bright and beautiful.

            “We should get going,” Lance said.

            Cue a massive chorus of protests from his family.

            “Don’t take him away yet, _cariño_ , we’re just getting acquainted,” his mom complained, hitting Lance with her deadly puppy dog eyes.

            “Got places to be, Mami,” he replied. “I’m sorry.”

            She pouted, giving Keith this look like, “Can you believe I call this creature my son?” But she patted his hand and let him get out of his chair unscathed. Keith grabbed his helmet off the table and smiled at everyone while he did.

            “Thank you for the coffee. It was nice to meet you.”

            Cue a chorus back that it was a pleasure to meet _him_. Lance’s mom stood up, too, and took Keith’s hand as she walked him to the front door. Everybody followed like a parade of ducklings.

            “Okay, _lindo_ ,” Teresa said, “you have a standing invitation for dinner. Whenever you want. You tell me when you’re coming, and I’ll fix something special.”

            “Thank you. I’d love that.”

            She and Keith smiled at each other in a way Lance almost couldn’t comprehend. It was so warm and soft and genuine, and Keith’s brow wrinkled in that way it did when he felt wistful or maybe a little bit sad. Teresa reflected that exact expression back to him, then patted his hand one last time and let go.

            “Drive safe,” she said.

            The whole herd followed the two of them outside, except Teresa, who lingered in the doorframe. Now that Marco had his chance, he yakked Keith’s ear off about the Suzuki’s specs the whole walk to the motorcycle. A little overwhelmed, Lance didn’t realize that he’d left his helmet downstairs until he got to the curb.

            “I’ll be right back,” he said, and hurried inside.

            His mom caught him on his way back out.

            “That’s a special boy, _cariño_ ,” she said. Both of them turned their eyes to Keith, who was nodding at Nadia’s drawings while Pop-Pop and Marco poked over his bike. “I understand now.”

            She looked up at Lance and smiled. The joy that filled Lance’s heart overflowed and filled his whole body as well.

            “ _Mami…_ ”

            “He’s hurt a lot, and come back together stronger. I can feel it.” Perhaps unconsciously, she put her hand over her heart and patted. “Take good care of him.”

            Lance smiled one of those wistful-maybe-a-little-bit-sad smiles himself. “I will, Mami.”

            “And make sure he comes to dinner, okay? I _have_ to have him over for dinner.”

            Laughing, Lance pecked a kiss on his mother’s cheek and hurried down the front porch steps. “I will, I promise. We’ll let you know.”

            “You better,” she called after him.

            Lance blew her another kiss as he went, then arrived at the motorcycle, where Marco deferentially, but reluctantly, took a step away. Keith looked up from Nadia’s drawings and smiled at Lance.

            “You ready, Boy Scout?”

            Out of the corner of his eye, Lance noticed Veronica clutch her hands over her heart.

            He nodded. “Ready.”

            Keith put his helmet on and mounted the bike. Lance followed his lead, and the two of them waved as they got on their way. The McClains waved back. Once Lance and Keith turned the corner, though, Keith pulled the bike over.

            “Everything okay?” Lance asked.

            Nodding, Keith replied, “Get off for a second?”

            Confused, a spark of nerves going off in his gut, Lance dismounted. He stood next to the bike, in front of Keith and frowned a little. Keith put up the kickstand and rose, pulling Lance into a kiss that was tough to navigate because of their helmets and different from any other kiss the pair of them had shared.

            There was a history behind it, but a history Lance had yet to learn. It was a kiss that covered Keith’s entire life, his every experience, all the things that made him _him_. It was a long kiss in the sense that it literally stretched backward through time. Right then, Lance got the sense that he was kissing Keith—all of Keith—for the first time.

            He’d never felt a kiss so complete. 

            After, Keith looked at Lance like he was the whole world.

            “I’m not gonna say what I want to say,” Keith said. “It’s too much. Right now.”

            Lance nodded. He understood.

            Keith let his breath out, let a hand drift down Lance’s front. His eyes flicked to the asphalt to look backward in time like that kiss. After a second, he met Lance’s gaze with a smile, so Lance met that smile with a kiss of his own.

            “I’m glad you liked them,” he said.

            In answer Keith could only nod, his bottom lip trembling.

            Lance climbed back onto the bike and hugged his arms tight around Keith’s middle. Keith drew in a deep breath and started them moving again.

 

The Hill Forest Country Club was every bit as terrible as Lance had imagined. Valet parking, an enormous fake-colonial building with columns and window shutters, pool attached to the side, golf course attached to the back. He and Keith did not take advantage of the valet for obvious reasons, but _did_ receive a questioning look from the girl running the coat check when they dropped off two motorcycle helmets and a pair of leather jackets.

            Lance couldn’t help swiveling his head around at all the marble and granite and ridiculous floral arrangements. Everything was a funky shade of off-white that looked pinkish orange somehow in the lighting. This was a version of wealth that bordered close to tacky without completely crossing the line.

            And Lance was delighted.

            “I feel like Rory Gilmore,” he said, linking his arm with Keith’s so Keith could escort him into the dining room, which—naturally—had a view of the golf course. The place was busy, fancy folks in nice shirts getting served at tables covered in white linens by waiters in equally white linen shirts. Keith wove through the room right up to where Shiro and Adam were seated in the corner by the windows. Shiro’s face lit up at their arrival.

            “You made it,” he beamed.

            “The riffraff had to take a little detour to find costumes that fit,” Keith replied. He unconsciously pulled Lance’s seat out and waited for Lance to sit before doing so himself. Lance raised his eyebrows conspiratorially at Adam, who chuckled. “I’m sorry we’re late.”

            “No, that’s okay,” Shiro insisted.

            Keith looked to Adam and smiled. “At least we’re fully clothed.”

            Shaking his head, Adam sipped an orange drink from a tall flute. “The corset’s a look. The D.A.R. ladies would love it.”

            “D.A.R.! I _am_ Rory Gilmore,” Lance gushed, which earned another laugh from Adam.

            “Adam, this is Lance. Lance, this is Adam,” Shiro introduced.

            “I know who he is, Takashi,” Adam replied, sipping again. “You were at the Rocky Horror concert. And you’re in the undergrad Wind Ensemble. Tenor trombone. I pay attention.”

            “You sure do,” Lance replied. “What are you drinking?”

            “A mimosa?”

            “I thought so. Keith, I want one.”

            “So get one,” Keith replied, making a face.

            It was at that moment Lance realized precisely how uncomfortable Keith was. His shoulders stiff, his expression a white mask of death. He looked like he’d been launched into the lion’s den and was desperately hoping some higher power would bail him out. Lance poked his side, and Keith slapped his hand away, glaring.

            “ _Don’t_ ,” he growled.

            Grinning, Lance poked Keith again, then sneak-attacked a kiss to his cheek when Keith moved to dodge.

            “Lance, I swear to _god_ —”

            But he couldn’t keep the smile in, nor the laugh that burst out when Lance tickled him a third time. He ended up swallowing the laugh, though, as their waiter appeared at the table and welcomed them.

            Fancy brunch was so fancy, the menu only had three items. A breakfast bar, brioche French toast, and a blackberry brie omelette. The latter sounded absolutely out-of-control, so naturally that was the one Lance picked. Shiro opted for the French toast, Keith and Adam for the bar. When the waiter brought the two of them their plates, he also brought Lance a mimosa.

            “This place is too fancy for the _word_ ‘buffet’,” he commented to Shiro as Adam and Keith got up to serve themselves from what was obviously a buffet on the other side of the room.

            Shiro just chuckled. “Thanks for coming.”

            “Thanks for _letting_ me,” Lance replied. “Seriously. Sunday brunch at a country club has been on my bucket list since I was fifteen.” He toasted Shiro with his mimosa, then tossed the whole thing back. He choked, and nearly tossed it all back up. Swallowing, coughing, his eyes watering, Lance said, “Don’t tell Keith.”

            Shiro gave him a smile like a fond, doting grandfather would. Quiet, he sipped his own drink, his gaze turning out the windows toward the golf course for a second.

            “Lance…”  
            Lance looked up from wiping the spit from his face with a cloth napkin.

            “I apologize if my saying this makes you uncomfortable, but…I haven’t seen Keith this happy in years.”

            Slow, Lance’s hand lowered to his lap.

            “He…gets in these moods, and he’s so focused on his music. He doesn’t have any friends his age aside from Romelle, which is why I wanted to introduce you all to him. I hoped something might click. Help bring him out of it, you know?” Shiro offered a small smile. “I didn’t expect _this_. Honestly, Lance, it’s night and day.”

            Lance could only stare. Not at Shiro, just…into the middle distance. Obviously he had no way to know what Keith had been like before they’d met, or what he was like when Lance wasn’t around, but hearing from someone who had known Keith since he was a baby that Lance made him happy? He couldn’t comprehend it. Keith made _him_ so happy, he hadn’t really paused to think that the feeling might be mutual.

            Adam returned to the table then, which gave Lance enough warning to recover before Keith sat down next to him and smiled. Did that smile really have to do with Lance? He couldn’t picture Keith’s face without it. But the idea that _he’d_ put it there…

            “Did you like your mimosa?” Keith asked, pointing at the empty glass.

            Lance nodded. “Living the dream”

            Another smile. “If you say so, Rory Gilmore.”

 

Back in the Avenues, sated on brunch, Lance and Keith made their way lazily down the stairs to the basement apartment. Lance couldn’t help thinking of that first time he’d walked Keith to the door, of the electric spark between their lips. Of Cuban food and smores. Reaching out, he massaged the back of Keith’s neck while Keith unlocked the door. Keith let out a contented hum.

            “Thank you for brunch,” Lance said.

            “Thanks for going with me.”

            “It was an honor _._ ”

            With a small chuckle, Keith went inside. He held the door for Lance, and Lance shut it behind them, taking Keith’s face in his hands and kissing his lips.

            A matter of moments, and their tongues began to dip in and out of each other’s mouths just for the sake of it. Not in a rush, not after anything other than the sensation. The intimacy. The air was warm, and they moved slowly. Like spoons through thick honey.

            “What time…is Krolia home?” Lance asked, sucking on Keith’s lips in between.

            “Not until later,” Keith replied. He kissed the corner of Lance’s mouth. “Like five.”

            Nodding, Lance brought Keith’s face forward for a number of deep kisses. He just couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t press hard enough, couldn’t find the right way to show _how much_ he felt. Keith kissed him back through it all, those beautiful notes of pleasure he sang letting Lance know that at least some of his affection had made it through.

            “Are you thinking you’ll go back to your apartment?” Keith asked.

            “Yeah,” Lance replied, nodding again, wrapping his arms around Keith. “It’s time to unpack this thing with Hunk.” He nestled their noses side by side and touched his lips gently to Keith’s. “Because you and I are in this for the long haul, huh?”

            Keith laughed—just a barely-there breath of air.

            “Yeah,” he said.

            The smile that dawned on Lance’s mouth was uncontrollable. He did his best to kiss through it, laughing a little himself, his teeth grazing Keith’s when Keith smiled, too. Then he picked Keith up and carried him to the couch and set him down and landed on top, fumbling as they both sank into those cushions with too much give. Keith smiled up at him—so gloriously luminous it was almost blinding.

            “You are _so_ beautiful,” Lance said, shaking his head. “Where did you come from?”

            “Please don’t ask if it hurt when I fell from heaven…”

            Lance grinned. “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” Keith groaned, so Lance unbuttoned the top couple of buttons on the guy’s collar to kiss his neck. “Left the door wide open for that one, my man.”

            “Doesn’t mean you have to walk in.”

            Chuckling, Lance lifted his lips from Keith’s throat for a second to prompt, “Did it, though?”

            Keith carded his fingers in Lance’s hair. “Did it what?”

            “Hurt when you fell from heaven?”

            Though he couldn’t see Keith’s face, Lance sensed the roll of his eyes.

            “No,” Keith said, “but I did scrape my knee crawling out of hell.”

            Lance snorted, which was probably a pretty weird sensation for Keith since Lance’s nose and mouth were pressed against his neck. Keith laughed, too, his grip tightening for a moment, warm fingers in Lance’s hair. As soon as that grip loosened, Lance lifted his head. Then he just…looked. At Keith. At all the stories in those violet eyes.

            “I feel like I owe you an apology,” Lance said.

            “What for?”

            “I don’t know…just…I think maybe I had this vision of you that was, like, a Manic Pixie Dream Girl or something, and that’s not, I don’t know. That’s not your ‘ _purpose_.’ You don’t just exist to teach me to embrace the mysteries of life or whatever. You’re a person.”

            Keith stroked his cheek. “Bold of you to assume _you’re_ the brooding young man.”

            Lance’s brows drew together. So did Keith’s.

            “This thing, Lance? Between us? It’s crazy. I don’t…I don’t know how to tell you how much you mean to me. I don’t let people in. Not like this. Not anymore. Not like…”

            His voice wavered, and in an instant Lance made sense of those stories in his eyes. It must have been what his mom had seen this morning. How much Keith hurt. It wasn’t the kind of hurt Lance might have expected, though. Not a person rejected by a lover, but a child rejected by his parents. Lance looked him right in the eyes.

            “Keith Kogane, you are _important._ ”

            Keith’s breath hitched as tears rose.

            “I’m the luckiest guy on the whole damn planet. You’re important. Okay?”

            Swallowing, Keith nodded. He squeezed his eyes shut, and two tears cut saline trails down his temples. Lance wiped them away. Then he leaned down and linked their lips. Keith kissed back like he had on the motorcycle earlier that day—with everything down to the very fibers of his soul. Like kissing the vibration of a sound wave.

            “Hey…” Lance whispered, pulling back. “Im gonna do something. Tell me to stop if you want…”

            Keith looked at him quizzically as Lance drew him up to sitting and then got off the couch. Understanding dawned on Keith’s face, however, after Lance knelt in front of him and looked up with a smile. Breathing deep, Keith nodded. So Lance unbuckled his belt.

            He moved gently, easing Keith’s pants down his legs, then off around his ankles. The underwear went next. It took some teamwork and finagling, seeing as Keith was sitting down, but that smile never left Lance’s face. He _was_ lucky. So, so lucky. He couldn’t picture his future without Keith in it anymore, and he had a hard time comprehending how he’d managed so long without him. Knowing Keith felt the same way—that Lance made him _happy_ —was more than Lance could have ever asked for.

            He kissed the inside of Keith’s knee. Then his thigh, right next to the first kiss. Methodical, smiling, he touched a line of kisses, one by one, up Keith’s inner thigh until his nose nestled in the crook where Keith’s leg became his hip. A hand fell atop Lance’s head. He looked up, still smiling. Keith smiled back, his cheeks flushed pink.

            Adjusting a little, Lance returned his lips to Keith’s thigh and sucked.

            “ _Hah…_ ”

            Somehow Lance kept forgetting the effect those noises had on him. Heat coiled in his gut, hooked deep, and he sucked harder, his fingers pressing into Keith’s thighs, the sides of his ass. Keith moaned.

            Jesus, Lance loved it. Loved being responsible for that, for the smiles, for the fingers curling tight in his hair. He released his mouth and smiled up at Keith a moment before running his nose up the length of his shaft to the tip, which he kissed, and earned an overdramatic groan in return. Lance chuckled.

            “Can’t be that good…”

            “You’re sexy, shut up,” Keith replied, voice hoarse.

            Lance laughed. He slowly pecked his way back down, kiss by kiss, savoring the note each one played, then up, where he took Keith a little ways into his mouth.

            “ _Ngh—_ god. _Lance._ ”

            He curled his tongue and pulled off, sucking gently. Keith’s thighs tightened around his ribs in response. A kiss to the tip, and Lance took Keith a little deeper. Hollowed his cheeks. Earned a long, gratifying hum. So there he stayed.

            He let Keith set the rhythm, the pair of them moving in tandem as they found a place they both liked. Every noise spurred Lance on, brought a hot blush to his own face. Keith’s fingers roamed through his hair and down his neck. Eventually, Lance found a position that made Keith writhe.

            “ _Ahn, there. That_ …” he breathed. Lance nodded, continued, brought Keith even deeper. Keith groaned, knotting his fingers in Lance’s hair.

            Lance took him right up to it, then pulled off and wrapped his hands around his cock to finish. Keith came, his back arching beautifully, the stuttered gasp that accompanied his orgasm a change from his usual vocality. Lance could only stare, drinking him in, marveling at how it was possible for someone so wonderful to exist.  Breathing deep, Keith looked at him and smiled. Smiling back, Lance kissed his thigh.

            “You wanna take a shower with me?” Keith asked. “Clean off those hands?”

            Lance laughed. “You know it.”

 

They napped, naked, in Keith’s bed until they got hungry and dressed. Both were in the kitchen, standing in front of the oven waiting for their early dinner to finish cooking, when footsteps and muffled voices came down the outside stairs. A second later, there were keys in the door, then Krolia with about six bags on her shoulders. Her eyes lit up in a smile.

            “Hi, baby. Hi, Lance,” she said, squeezing through the doorframe. Kolivan appeared behind her with a giant Igloo cooler.

            “Hi,” Lance laughed. He hurried over to help with the bags.

            “Oh, thanks…” She heaved a sigh of relief and let him take a few. “Two trips are for wimps. Dump them in here.” Gesturing with her head, she went into the living room and dropped the ones she was carrying in the corner. “Whatcha cooking, baby? Smells great.”

            “Lasagna,” Keith replied. Krolia went to him, approaching from behind, pulling his hair back from his forehead, and kissing his cheek. “You wanna stay, Kolivan?”

            “If there’s a portion to spare,” Kolivan replied, setting the cooler down by the door.

            “Always.”

            Smiling, Kolivan started unpacking the cooler. At the stove, Krolia whispered something to Keith that Lance couldn’t hear. Keith nodded, and Krolia kissed his cheek again. Lance hedged, but went to help Kolivan.

            “How was Novemberfest?” he asked, picking up a handful of beer bottles with labels he’d neither seen nor heard of. He carried them to the fridge.

            “Oh, a blast,” Krolia replied. She flopped into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “You should have come with us. Ulaz fell over the railing in the beer garden.”  

            Keith laughed. “Again?”

            “Yeah. He didn’t roll quite as far down the mountain this time, though. The poor waitresses were terrified he’d killed himself, and he let them think he was more hurt than he was. The usual.” She flashed a grin at Lance. “What about you two? How was your week?”

            “Lance started a jazz band,” Keith replied, looking over his shoulder with a smile.

            Lance blushed at the looks of surprise and excitement both Krolia and Kolivan displayed.

            “Congratulations,” Krolia said, beaming, reaching to whack Lance’s arm.

            “Condolences,” Kolivan chuckled, and Krolia whacked him, too. “What? A band is a drain on time and resources. The two of you can’t deny that. I was merely wishing Lance my sympathies on the death of his old life.” He picked out a beer from the cooler and toasted Lance with it. “May it rest in peace.”

            “I’ll drink to that,” Lance laughed, accepting a beer as Kolivan passed him one.

            The timer on the oven went off. Keith donned his oven mitts and fished the lasagna out, then brought it to the table. Lance grabbed plates and forks and things for everybody, and they all got comfortable—Krolia and Kolivan at either end of the table, Keith and Lance seated side-by-side between them. Krolia dished up the lasagna.

            “Oh, hang on, there’s bread…” Keith said and got up to deal with the French loaf on the counter.

            “Lance?” Krolia said, motioning at his plate. Lance passed it over.

            “Have you made much progress with your band, then?” Kolivan asked. He handed Krolia his plate after she passed Lance’s back.

            Lance nodded. “A little. I used to play in a trombone quartet, but one of our members quit, so I’ve got two trombonists and me on piano.” He looked up as Keith returned to the table with a bowl full of bread. Keith smiled. “But, actually…I was wondering if we could maybe get your help?”

            Kolivan raised an eyebrow.

            “We’re holding auditions soon to find some more members,” Lance continued. “So I was curious if you’d be willing to put up a flyer in Blade Base? Or even if you, like, know any musicians who might be interested?”

            Kolivan’s expression warmed. “I think I can do you one better, Lance. How about holding the auditions at Blade Base?”

            His mouth falling open, Lance stared at Kolivan. “For real?”

            “Yes,” Kolivan chuckled. “Of course, you can put up your flyer as well and I’ll notify any players I know who might be a good fit. What instruments?”

            “Oh, um, uh—let’s see—bass? Drums, sax…trumpet. But, like, we’ll audition whoever. Holy sh— _thank you_.”

            Kolivan laughed. “My pleasure. The auditions will have to take place during the day before we open, but if you’ll give me a few dates that will work?”

            Floored, Lance nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, for sure. I’ll—I’ll talk to Matt and Rizavi and we’ll let you know.” He couldn’t stop nodding. Holding auditions at Blade Base would lend an air of professionalism to the procedure that Lance never could have imagined. His heart beat happy and hard and fast, but it stopped beating altogether at what Kolivan said next.

            “Once you have a group together, you ought to audition for a slot at Blade Base.”

            Lance’s fork fell to his plate with a clatter. His already open mouth gaped wider. He stared at Kolivan, and he must have looked ridiculous, because all three people at the table just laughed at him.

            “I’ve been looking for a good jazz band to add to the roster,” Kolivan said.

            “They’re good,” Keith said, smiling, turning that smile to Lance and giving his thigh a squeeze. “Trust me.”

            “That’s high praise, Lance,” Kolivan said, pointing his fork at Keith. “That one is hypercritical.”

            “I am not,” Keith said, scowling.

            “Remember that folk group you ran out of town?”

            Keith rolled his eyes. “I did not ‘run them out,’” he said. “They were terrible.”

            Kolivan laughed, full-bellied and loud. It earned another scowl from Keith. Shaking his head, Kolivan pointed at Keith again and looked right at Lance.

            “This little upstart actually has the nerve to lecture _me_ on how to play the drums. He doesn’t even play the drums. _I’ve_ been playing since I was thirteen. And you know the worst part? He’s always right.” Laughing again, Kolivan sat back and shook his head. “Never wrong. Got a sixth sense for it.”

            A blush in his cheeks, Keith pursed his lips to poorly hide a smile. His eyes flicked to Lance and that smile broke free. Lance’s breath caught in his throat. He hoped that would never go away—Keith smiling at him like that, that smile’s ability to make Lance’s heart palpitate. He smiled back, full.

            “You let us know, Lance, if there’s anything else we can do to help,” Krolia said, smiling.

            Lance smiled back. “Absolutely.”

 

The roads were wet and shiny under the streetlights as Keith drove Lance back to Tower 1 on his motorcycle. They pulled up in the resident parking and Lance got off, then started to remove Krolia’s borrowed helmet.

            “Keep it,” Keith said. “Until we can get you your own.”

            Lance’s hands fell still and his stomach twisted in sweet excitement. He just stood and smiled at Keith in the dark and the cold, noticing neither. No, right then, the world was warm and bright.

            “Let me know how it goes with Hunk?” Keith asked, his brow wrinkling.

            Lance nodded. “I will,” he said, stepping up alongside the motorcycle. He smoothed his fingers along Keith’s neck. Keith smiled, reaching out to put a hand on Lance’s hip.

            “I’m gonna miss you,” Keith said.

            “Me too,” Lance replied.

            “Call me tomorrow.”

            “I will.”

            “Stay safe.”

            “I will.”

            Keith pursed his lips and squeezed Lance’s hip. He didn’t want to say goodbye, but it was time. Lance leaned down and tilted Keith’s chin up with a couple of fingers so he could kiss him. Tension lingered in Keith’s lips, apprehension. Lance kissed him again and again until that stiffness disappeared.

            “Goodnight, Keith,” he said.

            “Goodnight…”

            A final kiss, and Lance headed toward Tower 1. Keith lingered until Lance was inside, where he paused at the door to wave back at him. Keith raised a hand. Taking a deep breath, Lance went to the elevator. Out in the parking lot, the noise of Keith’s motorcycle rumbled away.

            Lance hadn’t seen Hunk since Tuesday. Hadn’t talked to him. He couldn’t think of a time in all their years of friendship that they’d gone more than a day without checking in. No wonder Hunk had been so worried when Lance had gone off the grid on Halloween.

            The elevator dinged as it reached the sixteenth floor. The doors rolled open. Lance moved down the hall, digging his keys out of his backpack. Key in the lock. Door open. Inside, Hunk at the kitchen table with his traditional Sunday night bowl of cereal. His eyes were worried and he sat bone straight.

            “Hey, man,” Lance said.

            “Hey…”

            “How was your week?”

            Hunk stared without answering. Lance set his backpack by the door and stepped into the kitchen, pulling out a chair and sitting across from Hunk. Hunk, for his part, just kept staring. After a second, he swallowed.

            “Matt told me Lotor quit the quartet,” he said. “I’m sorry, man.”

            Lance nodded. “Yeah. Could have used the money from those gigs, but what can you do? Did Matt tell you about the jazz band?”

            Hunk nodded. Lance did, too.

            Quiet for a minute.

            “I…” Hunk let out a deep breath. “I really hate hearing about your life secondhand.” A sad turn of his mouth. “I—I’m sorry…for…I don’t even know anymore, man, but I am.”

            “Me too.”

            Quiet again.

            Then Lance prompted, “Can we talk?”

            Hunk looked at him.

            “I haven’t said anything because I know you don’t like getting into your problems, but you’ve been distant and stressed since way before Keith. Can I ask what’s going on?”

            The color drained from Hunk’s face. He turned his attention to his cereal. Lance stayed quiet, waiting. He wasn’t going to push, but this was an elephant that needed addressing so it could finally leave the room. Eventually, Hunk sighed.

            “It’s stupid,” he said.

            “No, it’s not.”

            Hunk frowned. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

            “Okay, but I know it’s not stupid.”

            Lance raised his eyebrows, daring Hunk to disagree. A heavy breath huffed from Hunk’s mouth and he shook his head.

            “Where should I start?”

            “Wherever you want,” Lance replied.

            Nodding to himself, Hunk thought for a moment, then said, “Okay…um, so, you know that retreat I went to over the summer?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I…met this really cool girl in one of the workshops, and we started talking and we hit it off and ended up hanging out kind of the entire time?”

            Lance sat back, nodding to let Hunk know he was listening. He could sense the opening of something long-since kept back, the verge of a lot of laundry at last spilling out. Which it did. All at once.

            “We stayed in touch and she told me she wanted to apply to New Altea, but that she didn’t think she could pass the entrance exams, so I’ve been tutoring her. That’s been good, but, like, her family is going through some really hard stuff right now? They’re maybe losing their house and trying to keep the bank from foreclosing on them, and her brother took it really hard and quit playing music, and her grandma is sick. I want to help but we don’t have that kind of relationship, which sucks because I—I _really_ like her, but it just feels like I’d be taking advantage of her situation to get close to her—and I’m freaking out about graduation and this semester is out of control, and I feel like my life is headed somewhere I’m not happy with, and I wish I’d studied engineering or something practical, and I don’t know, man. This thing with you and Keith? I think—this is so stupid—I think I was jealous of you.”

            Lance blinked. Of all the things Hunk had said—most of which had surprised him—that was the most unexpected.

            “I’ve known Shay for almost seven months now, and I don’t even know if she likes me like that, and all you had to do was _look_ at Keith and it just—worked. Given everything else that’s going on, I think that just…pissed me off. Final straw, you know?”

            Taken aback, Lance stayed quiet. He had no idea what to say. Hunk didn’t add anything else, so the two of them sat silent for a while. Eventually, Lance spoke.

            “Jesus, I must have been so grating…”

            “You didn’t know.”

            “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “You get so excited about relationships, man,” Hunk replied. “I didn’t want you to get my hopes up.”

            Lance’s heart twisted _hard_. His expression must have betrayed that pain, because Hunk sat up with a start and shook his head and his hands at the same time.

            “No, no, I mean—just—you’re encouraging, and I didn’t…”

            Lance nodded. “No, I get it…”

            Frowning, Hunk slumped a little. He was right. He was always right. If he’d told Lance about the girl he’d met, Lance would have pushed him and hyped him up, and by the sound of it, pushing and hype would have done more harm than good. It still hurt, though—knowing Hunk had kept a secret for seven months. Knowing that Shay, whoever she was, was struggling and Hunk was struggling in sympathy, feeling like he couldn’t help. Of course he’d been distracted and irritable. Hunk’s heart was too big and warm not to hurt for those around him.

            “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, and I’m sorry for being a jerk,” Hunk whispered.

            Lance nodded. “I’m sorry for adding to the problem.”

            Hunk’s eyes peeled up to catch Lance’s. “Are we…good?”

            Smiling, Lance nodded again.

            “Yeah. Definitely good.”

            Hunk smiled himself, small and relieved.

            “Good,” he said.

            And with that, the elephant’s weight disappeared. Hunk’s smile grew, reaching something closer to the sunshine he usually exhibited. Instinctively, Lance wanted to launch into a discussion of this Shay person, get all the details on her, but another instinct kicked in, and he held back his questions. He wouldn’t push Hunk. Not this time. He’d learned. He offered a smile instead.

            “Can I, like, re-meet Keith?” Hunk asked, chuckling a little, rubbing the back of his head. “I don’t think I made a very good impression.”

            Lance’s heart lifted, and he sat up straight. “Of course.”

            “Thanks…”

            Hunk released one final sigh, letting go of the last of the bad along with it. When he smiled at Lance next, he looked tired, but happy. Lance hadn’t seen him look happy in a long time.

            “Tell me about your week,” Hunk said.

 

**

 

Auditions for Upright & Respectable were scheduled for the second Monday in November at three o’clock. In the meantime, Matt, Rizavi, and Lance practiced nonstop, hung posters in every place they could think of, talked to everyone they knew. Hunk and Keith met for coffee sans Lance, and both came back with glowing reviews. Both were present at two thirty that second Monday, when Lance officially panicked.

            “You okay, Boy Scout?” Keith asked. He exchanged glances with Hunk as Lance dropped into a chair they’d set up in front of the stage.

            His throat was thick, his mouth dry, and it hurt to swallow. What did he think he was doing? What if nobody showed up? What would they do if they couldn’t find other members? Be a trio? The thought of that made Lance’s whole soul hurt. He wanted this to work _so bad._ But he knew from experience that wanting didn’t make things happen. He opened his mouth to answer Keith, but nothing came out. Hunk’s hand fell atop his shoulder. Lance looked at him. Hunk gave a simple thumbs up.

            “You got this, buddy.”

            Lance offered a weak smile, so Hunk patted his shoulder and moved off to grab the table they planned to use. Up on stage, Keith finished putting away a mic stand and hopped down. He pulled Lance to his feet and draped his arms around his shoulders.

            “You nervous?” he asked.

            Lance nodded as he struggled to swallow the lump in his throat.

            Keith smiled. “Whatever happens, happens. It’ll work out,” he said.

            “What if—”

            Chuckling, Keith squeezed Lance’s cheeks in his hands to silence him, then smiled. “Have a little faith in yourself.”

            A peck to Lance’s lips, and Keith moved off, too, leaving Lance to plop in the seat once more. Together, Keith and Hunk brought over a table and two more chairs. Then Matt pounded on the front door, and Keith let him in. Rizavi arrived a couple minutes later. To Lance, it all happened in a muffled haze. The next time he tuned back into reality, Matt was poking him with the end of his slide.

            “—to Lance. Earth to Lance. Come in, Lance.”

            Lance batted away the next poke of the slide. Matt cheered.

            “He lives!”

            Keith’s hands settled in Lance’s hair. Lance looked up at him.

            “You ready?” Keith asked.

            Lance took a deep breath.

            “As I’ll ever be.”

            Matt and Rizavi took their places in chairs on either side of him. Hunk and Keith disappeared into the back hallways of Blade Base. They’d let in people who might already be waiting at the back door, and Hunk would stay outside to admit any latecomers and lead them to the green room, where Keith would organize the musicians, have them warmup, and bring them to the stage one by one. Matt and Rizavi chattered, excited. Lance squeezed his hands together to hide their trembling.

            He didn’t have to wait long.

            The hinges on stage door squealed. Lance looked up with a start. Keith appeared momentarily, gesturing somebody through. A guy carrying shiny silver saxophone stepped onto the stage. He was tall and had maybe coolest undercut Lance had ever seen. He walked right up to the front and raised a hand to Lance and Matt and Rizavi.

            “Hey. My name’s Kinkade. Kolivan told me you guys were looking for a sax player?”

            Lance sat up, nodding. A contact from Kolivan—he was probably good.

            “I’m Lance.” Was that _his_ voice? “This is Matt and Rizavi. Go ahead and give us the best you’ve got.” Did he really sound that collected and confident?

            “Cool,” Kinkade said with a grin.

            Without a second thought, the guy nodded at three of them and started playing. Well, not so much playing as absolutely blowing it out of the water. Lance actually had to tap the bottom of Matt’s chin to get him to close his mouth.

            Kinkade really knew his craft. Not only was he good, but he could groove. Lance felt stupid thinking that, or maybe just phrasing it that way, but it was true. The guy was smooth. He played clear and loud and clever—a performance in his face and body, too. He ended his improvisation after about a minute and turned his gaze between the three of them.

            “Thanks,” Lance said, smiling. He looked to Matt. “You wanna give it a shot?”

            “Do I _ever_ ,” Matt replied, grabbing his trombone and scrambling for the stage.

            “Matt’s gonna improv with you for a sec if that’s okay?” Lance said to Kinkade.

            “Yeah, for sure, man.” Kinkade put his hand out and shook with Matt as Matt mounted the stage. “I’ll follow your changes.”

            Matt nodded. He brought his trombone to his lips, but had to take a second to get his wiggles out before he could actually play. Kinkade tapped his foot, listening, then joining, and together the two of them played like a dream. Matt couldn’t stop grinning after they finished.

            “Got time to stick around?” Lance asked Kinkade, grinning himself.

            A smile quirked Kinkade’s mouth. “No pressing engagements,” he said.

            “ _Great._ ”

            Kinkade thanked them and they thanked him and then he went back out the stage door. Matt collapsed as soon as it swung shut.

            “Holy shit, my dude,” he said. “That guy was crazy.”

            “I’m thinking we’ll keep everybody we think might work, and we can all play with them after, yeah?” Lance said, glancing between Matt and Rizavi.

            “I’m sorry, how are you functional after that killer solo?” Matt asked.

            “Get off the stage, you idiot,” Lance laughed. “Somebody’s gonna walk in any second.”

            Unfortunately, the next couple of auditions were underwhelming, one of them downright bad. Lance thanked each player and said they’d be in touch about their decision. A lot of really shitty drummers paraded through, then a mediocre bassist. A couple other saxophonists, none of whom held a candle to Kinkade. Lance was beginning to think maybe they’d used all their karma for this audition in finding Kinkade in the first place, then a familiar face walked in.

            “ _James Griffin?_ ”

            Griffin played trumpet and sat first chair in the Wind Ensemble at New Altea. He was a bit of a prima donna, but a fantastic player. Lance couldn’t believe he was auditioning for a _jazz_ band. He would have thought Griffin hated jazz. Lance’s mouth fell open and he glanced at Matt in surprise. Matt didn’t look surprised in the least.

            “I was wondering if he’d show up,” he whispered.

            “ _You_ did this?” Lance gaped.

            “I talked to literally _everyone_ in the ensemble, dude,” Matt replied with a laugh. “Griffin pretended to turn his nose up at it, but I could tell he was interested.”

            Griffin approached the front of the stage and squinted into the light even though it wasn’t that bright. He just kind of stared at the three of them, frowning. Then he lifted his trumpet and pointed at it.

            “You want me to play?” he asked.

            “Yeah, just a solo to begin, then we’ll probably send Rizavi up to improv with you. Sound good?”

            Griffin looked to Rizavi and studied for a second, then nodded. Without further ado, he started a pretty rad riff. It took him a second, but he loosened up, like jazz was some kind of secret muscle relaxant he didn’t want to admit worked on him. Griffin’s prodigious classical ability lent its training to his playing. Technically, he was perfect. They could probably work with him on the stage presence stuff. And his little jam session with Rizavi went surprisingly well. Lance asked him to stick around, and Griffin agreed, leaving the stage without another word.

            “Aside from the major stick up his butt, he was cool,” Rizavi said as she returned to her seat next to Lance. “Do you think he’ll chill out?”

            “A couple hours with us and either he’ll chill or he’ll bail,” Matt replied with a chuckle. “We’re just that obnoxious.”

            Three more people auditioned after Griffin, none of them memorable. Though, that might have been because Lance was still reeling after the surprise of Griffin’s being there at all. Between him and Kinkade and Matt and Rizavi, they could have a pretty kickass wind section for the band. Keith came in and said that was the last of the auditioners for the time being.

            “Hunk’s gonna stay outside just in case anybody comes late. You want me to grab those two guys you had stick around?” he asked, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb.

            Lance nodded. “Think you could maybe play bass for us, too?”

            Smiling that smile Lance could get drunk on, Keith said, “Sure thing, Boy Scout.”

            He returned in a matter of moments with Kinkade and Griffin behind him. By then, Matt and Lance and Rizavi had set themselves up on stage—Matt and Rizavi with their trombones, Lance at the piano. Keith had brought and set up his bass in case any of the potential candidates would need it, so he only had to swing the strap over his shoulder. Then he smiled that smile again and gave Lance an encouraging nod.

            “I guess to make a long story short, you guys were great,” Lance said to Griffin and Kinkade. “Thanks for coming out. Um, let’s just mess around for a bit and see what happens? If we’re all feeling good, we can work out some times to practice together. Ultimately I want this to be a group decision.” He looked at Griffin and Kinkade in turn. “That includes both of you. If you’re not feeling it, you’re not obligated to stay. I want…I want all of us to be committed. And to communicate. Sound good?”

            Expression solemn, Griffin nodded. Kinkade did, too, though he was smiling. Matt gave Lance a winning grin. Rizavi looked like she might actually cry. When Lance looked at Keith, something shifted.

            He’d looked at Keith hundreds of times by then, many of those times to powerful effect. Drawing Lance in like a black hole draws in light. Inescapable. Inevitable. Wyrd. Lance had looked at Keith more than once and known he was the future, but looking at him then, that future actually felt real. This wasn’t a daydream anymore, it wasn’t a wish, wasn’t a fantasy. Keith wasn’t some nymph for Lance to admire from a distance and wish that he could have. He was here. _This_ was reality, and it wasn’t always going to be rose-colored sunshine. The future Lance saw in Keith then was one of hardship and hard work. Struggling together and because of each other. Taking on life as a team.

            They’d make a good team, though.

            He was sure of that.

            “Gimme that walking bass in B flat major?” he asked, giving Keith a smile.

            Keith grinned back, and Lance felt the buzz coming on.

            “You got it.”

 

The impromptu jam session went off like a miracle. Kinkade was calm and confident with an underlying current of positive energy that made him affable. Griffin, while in possession of the snippy attitude that often accompanied those who knew they had talent, competently communicated his issues and seemed committed to resolving them. He’d take some getting used to, but having a member of the band who would push back on Lance’s ideas in a constructive way would be invaluable.

            At the end of the session, both Griffin and Kinkade agreed to join Upright & Respectable.

            “I’m surprised you didn’t find a bassist or a drummer,” Keith remarked as he and Lance and Hunk finished resetting the stage so Blade Base could open on a clean slate. “You would think they’d be a lot more common.”

            “Hey, I’ll take what I can get,” Lance laughed.

            “One step at a time, right?” Hunk replied.

            Keith smiled. “Exactly.”

            Step two happened that weekend when Kinkade and Griffin arrived at New Altea to meet Matt and Lance and Rizavi in one of the practice rooms in the Alfor Memorial Building. The five of them rehearsed for a solid three hours, and by the end of it, one thing was clear.

            “We need a bigger rhythm section,” Griffin said.

            Kinkade nodded. “You’ve got a solid piano, Lance, but you can’t carry the whole thing. The rest of us are too powerful.”

            “What can I say?” Matt put in, flexing and kissing his bicep.

            Kinkade chuckled and shook his head. “We need drums. We need a bass.”

            “We need a second trumpet _and_ sax,” Rizavi laughed.

            “You guys know anybody who might be interested?” Lance asked.

            But nobody did. Kinkade said he’d talk to a few people, but Griffin’s pool of contacts was essentially the same as Matt and Lance’s. The five of them kept practicing, set a schedule to do so twice a week as a matter of fact, but the better they gelled, the greater the need for a complete rhythm section became.

            “I don’t know what to do,” Lance told Keith over lunch. They’d met at Common Grounds between Lance’s classes, and Upright & Respectable had been the main topic of conversation since they’d kissed hello. “Should we advertise auditions again?”

            Keith nodded. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

            “How did you do it?”

            “Form a band? I got lucky,” Keith replied. “After I met Krolia and she and I got talking about music, she mentioned how she used to play with a couple guys who were still floating around the scene in one form or another, and I met them, and it just clicked.” He shrugged. “With stuff like this, it either falls into place or it doesn’t. We went through like four keyboardists until we found Romelle. But I wouldn’t have met Kolivan or Ulaz if not for Krolia.”

            Lance nodded, considering. It really did just seem like a trick of the network. They’d put up posters for the first round of auditions, but the two people they’d brought into the band had come through people they’d already known: Kolivan, because Lance had asked him to ask around, and Matt, because he’d actually had the balls to shamelessly talk up the process to Griffin at Ensemble rehearsal. Technically, they wouldn’t have needed the auditions at all.

            “Could I ask you a favor?” Lance said.

            “Uh-oh,” Keith chuckled.

            “Would you be willing to play bass for us, just when you can? Until we find somebody? We need _something_ to fill out the rhythm section…”

            “If I can make your rehearsals, sure,” Keith said with a nod. He smiled, and the warm affection in his eyes compelled Lance to reach across the table to take his hand. “That’s not that big a favor, Boy Scout.”

            “You’re probably the only person in the world who wouldn’t consider that a favor.”

            Keith laughed. “I like you, and I like playing, and I like playing with you,” he said. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

            Lance drew Keith’s hand toward him and kissed the knuckles. “You’re the best.”

            “Tell me more.”

            “Divine.”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “A paragon of generosity.”

            Snorting, Keith shook his head.

            “Can I ask another favor?” Lance said.

            Keith waggled his head. “Depends on how _generous_ I’m feeling.”

            “Will you come to Thanksgiving at my family’s house?”

            All Keith’s facetious teasing emptied from his expression and left him pale. He went wide-eyed with surprise, caught off-guard. Smiling, Lance knitted their fingers together and gave them a squeeze.

            “My mom won’t stop bugging me to ask you,” he said.

            Keith swallowed. “She wants me to come?”

            “Yeah, everybody does.”

            A slight, sad note slipped from between Keith’s lips. His brows drew together, and he looked at Lance, eyes full and overwhelmed. Lance had expected a strong reaction, though this wasn’t exactly what he’d imagined. Overwhelmed, sure, but not like this. Keith looked like a puppy in an ASPCA commercial.

            “I’d love to come,” he said.

            So Keith popped in at the Upright & Respectable rehearsals that fit his schedule, and Lance told his mom to set an extra place for Thanksgiving. The woman practically screeched Lance’s ear off, wanted to know Keith’s every dietary restriction. Thanksgiving was a big deal in the McClain household—well, _everything_ was a big deal in the McClain household—but Thanksgiving played second fiddle only to Christmas. Lance’s grandparents had made a concerted effort to adopt every American holiday after the family had moved to the States, so they did things big and they did things loud. Keith insisted he was looking forward to it.

            The pair of them saw each other nearly every day. Keith would stop by campus for coffee or lunch. Lance would drop in on Luxite’s rehearsals in the evenings and try to work on homework while the band practiced, though he struggled because Keith in bandleader mode was really freaking sexy. He was clear and decisive, had this knack for explaining his vision. And the others _listened_ to him, respected him, even. Krolia and Ulaz and Kolivan all had fifteen or more years on Keith, but _he_ was the one in charge and they all seemed perfectly happy with it. At the same time, though, Keith respected them. Seeing Luxite rehearse, seeing the dynamic they cultivated, Lance began to understand why they had such a killer stage presence.

            He wanted that for his own band.

            Upright & Respectable practiced late the Wednesday before Thanksgiving since everybody had the day off. Keith arrived about halfway through, and the improvement in the music with the addition of a bass was painfully undeniable.

            “Can’t you just join, Keith?” Rizavi said, only half joking as she clasped her hands together and leaned toward him while batting her eyelashes.

            Keith laughed. “As much as I’d like to, Rizzo, I can’t,” he said. “Between work and my own band…” He glanced around the group. “I wish I could help. But Luxite—” At once, his eyes flashed.

            “Woah, lightbulb moment,” Matt said. He leaned forward, trying and failing to catch Keith’s eye as the gears turned rapidly in Keith’s head.

            “Keith?” Lance prompted.

            “Luxite,” he said, looking up. “What if…what if you played a set with Luxite?”

            Lance sucked in a sharp, excited breath. Keith continued.

            “If we combine, you’ll have the rhythm section you need, and there are a bunch of songs with wind sections that I’ve wanted to tackle for forever, but never had the talent. If you guys played a set with us, I bet you could generate a lot of interest. Maybe even draw out a bassist and a drummer.”

            The others launched into an immediate discussion, but Lance couldn’t hear what they were saying over the ringing in his ears. Luxite playing with Upright & Respectable. _Luxite_ playing with _Upright & Respectable. _Yes. Yes, yes, yes. They could borrow Ulaz and Kolivan and Krolia and Keith and Romelle. Learn from them. Play with them. Show a paying crowd how amazing Upright & Respectable could be. It was more than Lance could have asked for. More than—

            “Lance?”

            He looked at Keith.

            “What do you think?”

            In answer, Lance just kissed him full on the mouth.

 

**

 

Keith made sweet potatoes for Thanksgiving. Lance had the honor of holding onto the casserole dish to make sure it didn’t slide off Keith’s lap while he steered the motorcycle.

            The noise from inside the McClain house was audible even over the rumble of the engine as they pulled up on the street. Keith flipped the kickstand, grabbed the casserole, then passed the dish to Lance once Lance had dismounted and they’d both taken off their helmets.

            “Braced for impact?” Lance chuckled.

            Grinning, Keith got off the bike and took the dish. “Head between my knees.”

            No sooner had Lance linked hands with Keith than the front door burst open and Nadia rushed down the porch and across the grass shouting, “Tío Lance! Tío Keith! You’re here! You’re here!” She hurled herself into Lance’s side at rocket speed, nearly knocking him on his ass. They were lucky Keith had taken the sweet potatoes.

            “Happy Thanksgiving!” Nadia shouted.

            “Happy Thanksgiving to you, crazy girl,” Lance laughed.

            Suddenly, Nadia went bone-straight. “Oh! Tío Keith, I did a drawing for you!”

            She ran back into the house, and Lance turned to chuckle with Keith, but Keith’s face was pale and his eyes were shiny and he just kind of stared at the grass like he might throw up, or cry, or both. Sensing eyes on him, he looked at Lance and swallowed.

            “She called me tío…”

            Lance tugged Keith toward him and pushed a kiss to his cheek. “Of course. You’re family.”

            A blush swept into Keith’s face, and he squeezed Lance’s hand hard, smiling that big, bright, beautiful smile. Lance gave his arm an encouraging little shake, and together the two of them started for the house, where they nearly plowed into Nadia on her way back out. She thrust a piece of paper at Keith.

            “It’s a hippo! Last time you said they were your favorite.”

            Keith let go of Lance’s hand to take the drawing—a pretty decent approximation of a hippo in purple marker—and looked at it, his eyes all shiny again.

            “I love it, Nadia, thank you,” he said.

            “Is that my _lindo?_ ” Teresa shouted over the noise from the kitchen, materializing in the front room the next moment. She squealed at Keith as she came forward and took his face in her hands, then noticed the casserole dish. “Oh, you brought something! _Está volao._ You’re so sweet.”

            “Nice to see you, too, Mami,” Lance said.

            She reached out an absently patted his cheek. “Yes, hi, _cariño_. Here, Keith, let me put that in the kitchen…”

            Her hands slipped down Keith’s arms and eased the casserole dish out of his grasp. She went back into the kitchen, chattering about how good the sweet potatoes smelled. Now that Keith had a free hand, Nadia grabbed it and dragged Keith after Teresa.

            In the kitchen and attached family room, the McClains had gathered in finest form. Lance’s dad—Ramón—and Pop-Pop on the couch watching (re: yelling at) the Thanksgiving football game on TV with Veronica and Lisa. Marco leaning over the couch to argue with Veronica about the Puppy Bowl being better even though it wasn’t on.  Silvio already sitting at the table, ready to eat, only half-helping Rachel set places. Teresa and Luis at the kitchen counter putting the final touches on a turkey. Grandma asleep in her recliner. Everybody looked over and let up a shout when Nadia pulled Lance and Keith into the room.

            “Keith, this is your spot,” Nadia said, leading him to the table. She pointed at a setting with a red plate. It was the birthday plate, one rarely seen but highly treasured that said “You Are Special Today” around the edge. Keith sucked in a breath.

            “Silvio was very jealous,” Rachel said with a laugh and some side-eye.

            Silvio glared. “I was not! I just like the special plate is all…”

            He glanced shyly up at Keith, a little wary of a new face, but a Rachel extended her hand for Keith to shake, which he did.

            “I’m Rachel,” she said. “It’s so great to meet you.”

            “Lance!” Ramón shouted, so Lance moved to talk to his dad while Keith chatted with Rachel. Grinning, Ramón craned his neck to look up as Lance hovered over the back of the couch. “How’d you get somebody so nice to look twice at you, huh?”

            Veronica, Lisa, and Pop-Pop all laughed—Lance did too, but his was annoyed and accompanied by a playful smack to his dad’s forehead. Teresa interrupted the jeering, blessedly, by calling everybody up to the table. In the mass movement, everyone who hadn’t already met Keith caused a bottleneck by introducing themselves and saying hello. Other than grandma, who had to be woken and help to the table by Veronica, Keith was the last person to sit. Right in the middle at the special red plate.

            Dinner was raucous, as dinner always was. Everyone raved about Keith’s potatoes. Marco pulled out all the stops on embarrassing childhood stories. Nadia hollered at Keith about hippos. Luis asked what Keith did for work and all the usual life stuff, which quickly gave way to an animated round-table discussion on music. Lance told everyone about the jazz band, and was grateful he had Keith there to back him up. Not that his family wasn’t supportive, just that having another voice made a difference. With Lance being the baby, he wasn’t often taken seriously. About anything.

            In fact, he had altogether stopped bringing people home to meet his family because they were rambunctious, merciless teases who gave his dates a hard time just for being his dates. They did not go easy on Keith either, not by any stretch, but Keith took it in stride. He melted right in, warming to the jabs, even returning fire. He had the whole table laughing. Lance hadn’t seen _anyone_ get along with his family the way Keith did since Luis had introduced them all to Lisa way-back-when.

            After the meal, Ramón and Marco and Veronica cleared plates, then sat back down to do the traditional say-what-you’re-thankful-for bit with everyone. They started with Pop-Pop and Grandma at one end of the table and went around.

            When it came time for Keith’s turn, Teresa said, “You don’t have to, _lindo_ , if you’re not comfortable.”

            Keith shook his head. “No…I’d like to, actually.”

            The table went quiet with smiles, the McClains yielding the floor. Keith took a deep breath and released it through his nose.

            “Um,” he said. “I’m really grateful to be here with all of you. I…I haven’t spoken to my parents in almost three years, and…” His eyes flicked to his lap as tears crept in. “…to have all of you welcome me and treat me like family it, um…it really means a lot. I always wanted a family like this.” He looked up, smiling through his tears, laughing a little at himself for crying. He wiped his eyes and said, “Sorry,” and everyone echoed back a chorus of gentle “no”s.

            Keith looked at Lance, and his expression made Lance’s heart pinch. He was so full of that word Lance was becoming less and less afraid of: that thing he’d seen dancing with Keith in the kitchen, that thing he’d felt— _really_ felt—the night they’d gone back to Keith’s place after Wavy. Lance meant what he’d said earlier. Keith _was_ family.

            Keith was love.

            “Well, shoot,” Veronica said. “How am I supposed to follow that?”

            They laughed, but she went on, shifting the focus off Keith. Lance put a hand on Keith’s knee and leaned over.

            “You okay?” he whispered.

            Wiping his eyes still, Keith nodded. “Yeah,” Keith whispered back. “Really good.”

            Once the gratitude circle was complete, the group shifted into the backyard for pie and a sunset. More conversation. More teasing. More of Keith right at home. Like his puzzle piece fit not only with Lance’s, but the big picture as well.

            As it got colder, most of the family headed inside. Eventually, Lance and Keith and Marco were the only ones remaining on the back porch—Lance and Keith curled up under a quilt on the porch swing, Marco in a deck chair. The three of them didn’t really speak, just sat in contented silence and looked at the stars.

            “Oh, Keith…” Marco said. “I meant to ask you. Do you think you could tune my old guitar? I always sucked at it…”

            Keith chuckled. “Sure.”

            “I’ll go grab it. Thanks, man.”

            Marco rose and opened the sliding door, releasing a wave of family noise. As he shut it behind him, the pleasant quiet returned to the porch. Keith snuggled closer, wrapping his arms tight around Lance’s middle. Lance brushed his fingers through Keith’s hair. Together both of them drew in and let out a long breath. Neither spoke. Eventually, Marco returned to the porch.

            “I haven’t touched it in years, so I’m sure it sounds like hell,” he said, holding out his old Yahama acoustic. Keith sat up to take it.

            “No problem,” he laughed. “I’ll try not to break the strings.”

            Keith settled on the edge of the porch swing and put the guitar on his knee. He gave it a careful strum and laughed again at the horrible twang.

            “Marco!” Teresa called. “Come here, and shut the door. You’re letting all the heat out.”

            Muttering, Marco slipped back inside and slid the door closed. Lance looked to Keith now gently plucking the low E string on repeat and twisting its machine head. Keith shut his eyes to listen better. Lance stifled a groan.

            “Do you _know_ how sexy you are?” he asked.

            A smile rose on Keith’s mouth. He moved to the A string. “I’m glad you think so.”

            “It’s just a fact of life, my man.”

            Keith’s smile widened to show his teeth, but he didn’t open his eyes. Lance was more than happy to sit and watch him finish tuning Marco’s guitar. No surprise, the instrument sounded amazing once Keith gave it a final strum and opened his eyes.

            “I don’t think these strings have much longer to live,” he chuckled. Lance laughed too, until Keith held the guitar out to him.

            “Take it.”

            “What?”

            “I promised you a guitar lesson, didn’t I?”

            Swallowing, Lance accepted the instrument and scooted forward on the porch swing so he could hold it comfortably. Keith corrected him by gently tipping the instrument so it rested straight up and down against Lance’s leg.

            “Pull it close,” he said. “That’ll help you resist the temptation to tilt the body.”

            Lance did as instructed, bringing the instrument right up against his middle and resting his elbow on the bottom. Keith dug around in his pockets for a second and unearthed a guitar pick, which he offered to Lance. Lance just stared at him. Keith tucked his hair behind his ear.

            “It’s extra thin, so it might not be great for a beginner,” he said with a chuckle.

            Shaking his head, Lance gestured Keith forward. “Come here.”

            “What?” Keith asked, though he did scoot closer.

            “Nothing, just, if I don’t kiss you now I’m gonna overload on cute and probably die,” Lance replied. He made sure to keep a firm grip on the guitar as he put his other hand on Keith’s cheek to bring him close and peck a kiss on his lips. Smiling, Keith kissed back. When Lance pulled away, he accepted the guitar pick. “There.”

            “All good?” Keith asked with a wry smile.

            Lance grinned. “For now.”

            Chuckling, Keith showed him a couple different ways to hold the pick and told him to experiment, gave a simple overview of the numbering for fingers and frets and strings, explained that strumming was a wrist motion, not an elbow motion, and not to worry about hitting all the strings on an up strum. He let Lance practice strumming without fretting any chords, giving helpful and encouraging corrections as needed until Lance was feeling confident.

            “Is this how you are when you teach?” he asked.

            Keith laughed. “I guess.”

            “You’re really good at it.”

            Turning a little pink, Keith glanced at his lap. “Thanks.”

            Once Lance was ready, Keith showed him the proper hand shape for fretting—not pitched too far forward or backward at the wrist, fingers wide and curved like he was trying to hold a ball.

            “You’ll want to place your fingers right behind the fret as close as you can get without being on top of it. Makes the best break angle for a clean note.”

            “Okay.”

            Keith gave him a couple finger and fret number combinations, and Lance had to compute for a second before finding them. Keith eased Lance’s wrist back into a neutral position after he did. Then Keith nodded.

            “Strum,” he smiled.

            Lance did, but it sounded weird and buzzy.

            “Fingertips,” Keith said, and Lance adjusted his grip.

            When he strummed next, it actually came out pretty good. He grinned and strummed again.

            “Yeah, that’s great,” Keith nodded.

            On the next strum, though, one of the strings broke. Lance jumped and said, “Shit!” startled by the snap. Keith just laughed.

            “I figured,” he said. “I can restring it if he’s got extras.”

            Rising, they both went into the house. The family was huddled around the kitchen table playing a game of Five Crowns. Teresa sat at the head with Marco posted behind her chair so he could offer advice. Most of them looked over as Keith and Lance came inside, Marco with hopeful eyes.

            “Keith broke your guitar,” Lance said.

            Keith whacked him. “No, I didn’t. It just needs restringing. Do you have spares?”

            “Oh, yeah, no problem,” Marco said, peeling away from the table. “Actually…I’ve got a whole new set…”

            “I’ll restring them all if you want?”

            Marco’s delight and relief did not go undisguised. He practically melted into a puddle on the floor and garbled a bunch of thank yous at Keith as he scurried downstairs to get the strings. Lance gave Keith an apologetic expression, but Keith smiled and shook his head.

            “I’m happy to help.”

            “Tío Lance! Come be on my team!” Nadia cried.

            Lance obliged, sliding onto her chair and lifting her into his lap. They were a good eight hands into the game by then, so Nadia passed him all ten of her cards since she was having a hard time holding onto them. Lance accepted and sorted, then put his arms around her to hold the cards where they could both see. Marco returned from the basement, and Keith met him at the counter, saying, “I can show you how if you want?” to which Marco nodded eagerly.

            So, Marco and Keith worked on the guitar while the others played cards. Nadia did all the drawing and discarding—and decision-making, really—and would have been a pretty competent player were it not for the fact that she only wanted to collect cards in the star suit because that was her favorite. She and Lance lost the round handily.

            It didn’t take Keith long to finish restringing, working swiftly with his practiced fingers, and he even had the guitar tuned by the end of the next round of cards. Luis reached into the middle of the table to collect the deck, shuffle, and deal, but his hands fell still when Keith played a practice riff to test the sound. Everybody fell still, as a matter of fact.

            When Keith finished the riff, he looked up to find everybody’s eyes on him. He chuckled, a little embarrassed, and held the guitar out to Marco. Slack-jawed, Marco didn’t take it.

            “Play something for us, _lindo_ ,” Teresa said gently.

            “Oh, um…okay.” Keith drew the guitar closer to his body. “Any requests?”

            Grandma sat up in her recliner. “‘Mr. Sandman,’” she said. “Can you play like Chet Atkins?”

            Keith’s expression softened and he gave a nod to Lance’s grandmother. “I can try,” he said, pulling up a stool from the counter. He sat down, and Grandma settled, closing her eyes with a smile on her face, ready to listen. Keith played.

            Lance could live for a thousand years and listen to Keith play for every second of it and never get bored. He was such a spark of a musician. Something _truly_ special. The McClains all watched and listened with bright eyes and smiling mouths. Keith brought that out of people—the joy of music. Halfway through, Lance’s dad got out of his chair and grabbed his mom’s hand and pulled her to her feet to dance with him. Luis and Lisa joined in, and Nadia begged Lance to dance with her, too, so he did. Rachel grabbed Silvio, Marco grabbed Veronica, Pop-Pop went over to take Grandma’s hand. Keith rolled right into the next song, and the McClains kept right on dancing.

            As he spun Nadia around and around under his hand and she giggled, Lance looked at Keith from across the kitchen.

            Keith smiled.

            Lance smiled.

            Family.

            Love.

 

**

 

Luxite and Upright & Respectable met together the week after Thanksgiving. Matt picked up all their members to carpool to Blade Base where Keith and all _his_ members were waiting. After a round of introductions, they got down to it.

            “The main goal here is to showcase the five of you,” Keith said. “Blade Base gets a lot of musicians in the crowd night to night, and I think if they were given the chance to see what you guys could be, you’d have a shot at finding the rest of your rhythm section. That said, I have my own reasons…”

            He chuckled, and Lance laughed, too. They’d talked for a while about how these rehearsals would run, who would be “in charge” so to speak, and Lance had insisted that Keith take the reins. Not only had combining bands been _his_ idea, but he was also more experienced. Lance was more than happy to take this opportunity to learn from him, and he was sure Keith would do a better job getting the set polished as quickly as possible.

            Time was of the essence.

            “I have a few songs I’ve wanted to perform for years, but they require a good wind section, and I’ve never had access to one,” Keith continued. “We’ve also got some numbers we’ve been rehearsing that technically call for wind, but we’ve been making due without. It’s not enough for a full set, but take a look…”

            He grabbed a small pile of papers from a nearby table and passed them out to Lance and the others. “Get It On” by Chase, “Goody Two Shoes” by Adam Ant, “Stay with Me” by Ten Wheel Drive. Then “Rapture” by Blondie, “Holding Out for a Hero” by Bonnie Tyler, and “Short Skirt/Long Jacket” by Cake.

            “Obviously they’re more geared toward our style than yours, but we’re not jazz musicians,” Keith said as everybody looked the list over.

            “And you’ll have top billing,” Kinkade said. He offered a smile when Luxite bristled. “Sorry. I meant that as a vote _for_ rock music. You’re doing us a favor, the least we can do is cooperate.”

            Griffin looked up from the list with a scowl. “Does it have to be 80s music?”

            “It’s Luxite’s wheelhouse,” Lance replied. “And it’s not _all_ 80s music.”

            Pursing his lips, Griffin looked over the other band—including Keith—with an eyebrow raised. Frankly, he didn’t seem too impressed. He’d never seen one of their sets, though. Lance assumed Kinkade had, given that he knew Kolivan, and Rizavi had enough faith in Keith to trust the rest of his band without hesitation, so Griffin was an outlier, but that made his opinion particularly valuable. He set the list of songs down.

            “What about the overlap?” he asked, gesturing between Lance and Romelle.

            “I’ll take organ and keyboard,” Romelle replied. She folded her arms across her chest. “Lance will play piano. Any incidental instruments will also be me. Harmonica, bells. Backup vocals. You know.” The smug smile she gave Griffin was wholly deserved, but he still glared about it.

            “You don’t have to be uncivil,” he said.

            “Neither do you,” Romelle replied. “And I’ve got less riding on this than you, boy-o.”

            “So we’re just supposed to let the five of you tell us what to do?”

            “No,” Keith said. “This is half a set list. If there’s a song you want to play, we’ll add it. Everybody needs to be happy with the product we’re putting out, or we’re not going to put it out.”

            Keith raised his eyebrows. Griffin considered a moment, then nodded. Keith nodded back before continuing.

            “As far as this set is concerned, Krolia’s probably going to take over lead guitar so I can focus on vocals, but what the five of us end up playing song-to-song isn’t a big deal. We’re flexible. So, think about some stuff you might want to perform and we can talk about it. Also, if there are songs you want that don’t have a wind section, I can do an arrangement. I’ll probably have to do an arrangement for everything anyway, given the…balance of instruments.”

            “Two trombones for the win,” Matt said and put up his hand to high-five Rizavi.

            “Imbalance might be a better word for it,” Kinkade chuckled.

            “Regardless, does anyone have any song suggestions now?” Keith asked.

            Matt put his hand up, and drew in a deep breath after Keith nodded at him.

            “You’re really willing to do arrangements?”

            Laughing, Keith nodded again.

            “Then we gotta do ‘Straight Up’ by Paula Abdul.”

            “Oh my _god._ ” Griffin practically left the current plane of existence, his face a mask of misery and horror. “You have to be kidding me.”

            Keith grinned, hurrying forward to give Matt a well-earned high-five. “ _Hell_ yeah,” he said. “That’s perfect for brass. I’ve been dying to sing some Paula, too.”

            “ _Can_ you sing Paula?” Griffin asked, cocking an incredulous eyebrow.

            Keith flipped his performance switch, channeling that hyper-sexy energy he always carried, and stalked toward Griffin already going after the chorus for “Straight Up”. He grabbed Griffin’s shirtfront and pulled the guy into his face, singing strong and sultry. Griffin blushed beet red. Keith let him slip from his grip and walked away as he finished the chorus. Then he flipped the switch off and turned around to smile. Griffin cleared his throat.

            “All right,” he squeaked. “You can.”

            “Glad we settled that,” Keith replied.

            Kinkade put forward “What is Hip?” by Tower of Power, and Rizavi asked if Keith could do an arrangement for Duran Duran’s “Union of the Snake”. Griffin warmed to the suggestions and even offered a song by Lighthouse called “One Fine Morning” that no one else knew, but a quick listen to a recording online and both bands agreed on including it. Lance knew exactly what song he wanted to perform—“Bat Out of Hell” by Meat Loaf, the Jim Steinman song that had made him want to start learning piano in the first place—but he didn’t know if that was achievable, so he kept his mouth shut and said he’d try to think of something, so the others moved on.

            Keith passed out sheet music for “Holding Out for a Hero” since that was the simplest from a wind section standpoint, and Lance nearly had a heart attack looking at the piano part. As they moved to collect their instruments, Romelle flashed him a smile.

            “Don’t overthink it,” she said.

            Taking a deep breath, Lance smiled back. The group warmed up. And rehearsal started.

            They spent a little time on each song. None were easy, and Keith did not go easy on any of them. Lance supposed it made sense to expect nothing less than perfection, he was Keith after all, and he made his expectations perfectly clear. He wasn’t harsh, though. Never harsh. Simply honest. The playing itself didn’t go nearly as well as Lance had hoped—with twice as many people and changing musical styles, he’d been naïve to think they’d sound good right off the bat—but it went well enough. All the same, Lance started to lose his confidence over their last hour together. By the end of the rehearsal, he couldn’t help but feel like his group and their lack of experience were dragging Luxite down.

            “Thanks for doing this, Krolia,” Lance said, glancing at the ground.

            She stood up from putting her guitar away in its case next to the piano and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, I told you to let us know if we could do anything to help, and this is what we can do.” A smile quirked the side of her mouth when Lance looked at her. “I think it’s going to be fantastic.”

            Lance tried to take her assurance with him into the rest of the week, but with midterms and the general mess of the holidays, staying positive wasn’t exactly easy. The weather went grey with snow on the way, and Wind Ensemble really buckled down for their winter concert. December quickly shaped up to be the perfect storm of stressors, and Lance probably would have buckled under the weight of them if not for Keith and Upright & Respectable.

            In spite of their struggles, the band was the light at the end of the tunnel, a canvas upon which Lance could paint anything he wanted. Keith worked on their arrangements with glee, consulting Lance and constantly pestering him to pick a song for the set until he admitted that he wanted to do “Bat Out of Hell”. He didn’t know what to make of the wide-eyed expression Keith turned his way.

            “You’re serious?” Keith said.

            Lance nodded.

            “Lance, that’s my _favorite song._ ”

            “Are _you_ serious?”

            Keith’s turn to nod.

            Neither of them could help the smiles and laughter that bubbled to the surface anymore than they could help grabbing each other and falling into a frenzy of kisses that ended in bed. They were magnetic. Simply drawn to each other.

            They set the concert date for December twenty-second, which was madness, all things considered, but everyone agreed, and everyone kicked into overdrive to get ready.

            “You sure you wanna perform right before Christmas, man?” Hunk asked when Lance gave him the date for his calendar. “Will you guys be ready?”

            Lance nodded. “We set a goal and we’re sticking to it.”

            Lost in thought, Hunk wrote _lance concert_ in his little day planner on a Friday Lance could hardly believe was only two weeks away. As he crossed his T, Hunk froze, the tip of his pen stuck to the page.

            “You okay?” Lance asked.

            “What if…what if I invite Shay to your concert?” he said, turning to Lance with his eyes bright and scared. “She plays trumpet, I bet she’d love it. Maybe she could even talk her brother into coming out. That would be such a good distraction for them.”

            Hunk swallowed, both excited and terrified by the prospect. Lance socked his shoulder playfully.

            “I bet we could even comp your tickets.”

            “No,” Hunk said, his brows drawing together in genuine dismay. “You’re my friend and I want to support you. I’m paying for my ticket. You have to let me pay.”

            Lance laughed. “You might have to take that up with Keith.”

            Of course, when Hunk talked to Keith at lunch the next day, Keith told him he absolutely was not allowed to pay for his own ticket, especially if he was going to bring Shay and her brother, and the two of them argued in circles for ten minutes until finally settling on Hunk getting a discount, which Keith was not at all happy about.

            “He’s too sweet for his own damn good,” Keith grumbled as he walked with Lance to Lance’s next class.

            Lance lifted their joined hands to kiss Keith’s knuckles through his gloves. “So are you.”

            Though Keith snorted, a smile overtook his features. Snow started to fall as they reached Lance’s building, but the flurries were light and not expected to stick. Lance brought himself around to face Keith, their hands still joined. Reaching up, Keith wrapped his arms around Lance’s neck and kissed him. Lance wrapped his arms around Keith and kissed him back, pulled him closer when he started to move away. Keith laughed, gracing Lance with a few more brilliant kisses. The guy was never gonna make it easy to say goodbye.

            “I’ll see you tonight, Boy Scout,” Keith smiled, slipping away.

            “Drive safe in the snow,” Lance called after him.

            Keith turned to wave and slipped on the wet sidewalk as he trotted backwards. He caught himself and cracked up. The sight of it made Lance’s heart pinch unbearably tight. And there was that word again, creeping in at the corners of his mind—terrifying and inevitable at the same time. Keith waved, and Lance waved back, a little sick with affection. Weird, how caring about somebody could make you feel so frightened.

            That feeling never waned no matter how much time they spent together. Keith came to campus when he could. Lance often found himself at Ryner’s for practice (during which she insisted on hosting a party for everyone after the combined concert), and often at Keith’s for dinner after. Then, of course, they had combined-band rehearsals, but those necessarily became less frequent as December wore on and people had holiday responsibilities. Every time they met, though, they sounded better and better. Keith really cracked the whip, and put the fear of god in them, saying if they didn’t practice on their own, there wouldn’t be a concert.

            He made it sound like he’d cancel the thing night-of if he wasn’t happy with it. Which, in all honesty, he probably would.

            The Wind Ensemble performed their winter concert on the fifteenth. The whole experience made Lance extra grateful for Upright & Respectable. Playing last chair for trombone in a large ensemble was a thankless job—he still enjoyed it, he always would—but forming his own band had helped him realize how much he liked being in charge of himself, actually having a _voice_. He had real sway over the creative vision for his band, not so in the ensemble.

            All the same, Coran pulled him aside after the concert during the little greeting session to tell him how impressed he’d been with his playing. Stunned, Lance didn’t really know how to reply. Then Keith popped up beside them, having materialized from the crowd.

            “There you are,” he gasped, grinning, clutching a gigantic blue hydrangea in his arms. “Great concert, Dr. Smythe.”

            Coran nodded his thanks and excused himself, passing a smile between Lance and Keith and saying he would leave them to it. Keith threw an arm around Lance as soon as Coran was gone. Still bewildered, Lance hugged him.

            “That was fantastic, Boy Scout,” Keith said, pulling back to smile right in Lance’s face.

            Lance couldn’t help pecking a kiss to his lips. “There’s no way you could hear me.”

            “You think I don’t know which raggedy trombone growls are yours?” Keith laughed. He pushed Lance’s neck to bring his face forward so they could kiss again. Then he let go and presented the hydrangea. “I brought you flowers.”

            “Keith, this is a whole-ass plant.” Laughing, Lance accepted the pot.

            “I know, but they made me think of you, and I didn’t want to get you something that was just going to die.”

            “So you gave me the responsibility of killing it myself.”

            Keith scowled, so Lance put an arm around him and pulled him into another kiss.

            “They’re beautiful, Keith. Thank you. I’ll take very good care of them.”

            “You’d better,” Keith replied, a little coy, tucking his head under Lance’s chin and running one of the lapels on Lance’s concert tux between his fingers.

            “Any chance I can talk you into having sex with me in the band room later?” Lance asked, chuckling.

            “ _Mm_ , no talking necessary,” Keith replied.

            He looked up at Lance with an irresistible smile that made Lance want to drag him off right then, but Matt and Pidge appeared, struggling through the throng of musicians and musicians’ friends and family members to reach them. Hunk was not far behind. The five of them stood and chatted, said great job to each other and the rest of the ensemble as they passed, laughed while Matt tried yet again to flirt with Allura. Eventually, the crowd thinned, and everyone cleared off, but the band room was locked by the time Keith and Lance snuck back to check.

            “Next best thing?” Keith suggested, and Lance didn’t even care anymore. He just wanted Keith in his arms singing that gorgeous music already.

            They hurried from the building to the parking lot, where Keith led the way to the big white van that Krolia usually drove—the one Luxite transported their equipment in. He must have brought it because of the potential snow.

            Keith unlocked the back and climbed inside. The space was empty aside from the carpet samples layered across the bottom and a pile of ratchet straps and bungee cords in the corner next to Keith’s bag. Keith grabbed the hydrangea and set it in the front seat before pulling Lance himself inside and reaching to close the back doors. Once the overhead light shut off, the windowless storage area went dark. Keith’s smile glinted in the light coming through the windshield from the parking lot.

            “The suspension’s pretty good,” he said, “so you shouldn’t have to hold back.”

            The words went straight to Lance’s dick. Groaning, he yanked Keith forward into a sloppy, stooped kiss. Keith laughed, nipping at Lance’s lips. They stripped in a frenzy and made their way to the floor.

            Regardless of how often Lance had been naked with Keith by then, he had to take a moment to appreciate his beauty. The lean muscles around which Lance traced a pair of firm fingers. The pink hue in Keith’s cheeks and chest and shoulders. He smelled like sex already, like rosin and leather and floral soap. The callouses on his fingertips as his touch brushed up Lance’s spine, across his shoulders, and around his neck and down again reminded Lance of the power in those fingers—the effort and talent and sacrifice. The music. What a privilege to have someone with fingers like that want to put those fingers on him. Dipping low, he sucked his mouth against Keith’s neck, hoping for a few heated notes. He got them, and sucked harder.

            “ _Hmn._ I love that,” Keith droned.

            “Me too,” Lance replied.

            His tongue and teeth traveled downward—along Keith’s neck to his collarbone, across that, then to his chest. Lance reveled in the way Keith melted, the vocal breaths that left his mouth. He kissed his way down Keith’s belly to his hips and cock, which he slipped his lips around just for a moment, just to hear the hiss of pleasure that accompanied his name.

            “ _Lance._ ”

            Smiling, Lance lifted himself to bring the two of them back in line. He let his weight press Keith into the carpet and drowned in the sensation of Keith’s solid warmth and strength underneath him. He touched their lips together, and Keith’s tongue pressed into his mouth. The kiss shifted into another, and another, as the pair of them began to move in that deep, perfect, primal rhythm—skin to skin, heat to heat.

            “…stuff in my bag…” Keith said, gesturing vaguely at the corner where the thing was now buried under articles of their clothing. “ _Mngh._ Present for you— _hah—_ too.”

            Lance took a moment to look into Keith’s eyes. Pupils wide, bright with happiness while at the same time dull with pleasure. Lance pressed an affectionate kiss to Keith’s mouth before reaching after the bag and pulling it toward them. He flipped back the top and dug inside, after lube and condoms, but finding a bound set of sheet music first. Keith must have heard the paper crinkle because he said, “That’s it.”

            Sliding the music out, Lance recognized Keith’s now-familiar notation immediately. The  peculiar way he drew quarter rests, the overly-simplistic curve of his treble clef. Across the top in block lettering, _BAT OUT OF HELL._ Underneath that, smaller, _arr. Keith Kogane._ And smaller still, _for Lance._ Ten measures in, Lance already knew it was incredible.

            “Keith…”

            “Do you think they’ll be able to learn it in time? It’s ten minutes long.”

            “ _Keith._ ”

            Lance set the music down and fell atop Keith, knotting his fingers in his hair. He kissed him hard. Harder than he’d ever kissed him. Sort of like that day on the motorcycle when Keith had first met Lance’s family, only this time it was Lance kissing with his whole self all the way back through time.

            This was the culmination of everything he wanted to be: a creator and player of beautiful music. Now, though, he realized he didn’t need to “make it big.” He didn’t need the money or the recognition that came with fame and success. He only needed to create. To play. To surround himself with other creators and players. And if his music touched only one other person in the whole world, only reached one set of ears, that would be okay with him. As long as that set of ears belonged to Keith.

            Lance meant to say, “It’s perfect,” but what came out instead was, “I love you.”

            Keith jolted as his breath stuttered in his chest. His heartbeat stuttered, too, which Lance felt through the flesh and bone between them. Startled by his own admission, Lance lifted his face and looked at Keith. Tears had filled his eyes. He laughed, sniffing, reaching up and stroking Lance’s cheek, smiling through those tears.

            “Do you really?” he asked, his voice small and tight. Like he couldn’t believe it. Like he didn’t know how unbelievable _he_ was.

            Lance could only nod.

            Rising, Keith wrapped his arms around Lance’s shoulders and drew him down. Heat and desire and _love_ bloomed at every point where their bodies touched until _every_ point of their bodies touched. Then they didn’t feel like two people anymore, but one.

            Lance could taste Keith’s tears on his lips, taste his words as he whispered into Lance’s mouth.

            “I love you, too.”

            The sun dawned in Lance’s heart. It was bright and warm and blinding—but, like every sunrise, it had only been a matter of time. Love. Love, love, _love_. And Keith loved him, too. Lance felt so light he thought he might float away, and he nearly did, tugging Keith with him as he sat up, wrapping his arms around him and hanging on as Keith straddled him and they kissed and kissed.

            “This is crazy,” Keith said, holding tight as Lance went after the bag again.

            Lance shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s just us.”

            Keith fell still. Light reflected off the sheen of sweat already on his skin, off his eyes as they flicked back and forth, searching Lance’s.

            “I _love_ you, Lance McClain,” he said. His body surged forward, pressing against Lance as he pulled a powerful kiss from his mouth. “I love you so much.” He held Lance’s face in his hands and kissed him again like it would kill him if he didn’t. “It scares me.”

            “Me too, Keith,” Lance whispered. He let his hands glide down Keith’s sides, along his hips, across his thighs.

            “I love you,” Keith said again.

            “I love _you_ ,” Lance replied.

            Their lips met and nipped at each other, desperate and painful, but delighted all the same. Lance eased Keith back to the carpet. Trembling, Keith consented. Lance kissed him over and over, over and over, over and over, reaching the repeat at the end of the measure and going back again and again.

            Somehow his hands found the bag, found what they were after. He kept his lips locked with Keith’s as best he could as he spread lube on his fingers, then slipped the first inside him. Keith keened into his mouth, and Lance wished it was possible to swallow sound, make it part of himself. He settled for another moan at a second finger.

            “ _I love you._ ”

            He didn’t know who said it.

            Lance kissed Keith hard, kissed him fierce. Another finger, probably too soon, but Keith pushed onto it anyway, gritting his teeth and sucking in a breath, going tense and then limp.

            When it came down to it, they gave the suspension a run for its money.

            They’d never had sex quite like that—this helpless sort of wild tandem, neither in control of themselves or each other. Lance was only vaguely aware of the effort, lost instead in a glorious haze of Keith. The way he smelled. The way he felt around him and under him. Just the noise he made as he came was enough to bring Lance along right after. They collapsed together, wrapped their arms around each other, and breathed deep in perfect syncopation until they were both shivering. Even then, they didn’t move.

            “Hey…Keith?”

            Keith swallowed. “Yeah?”

            “Can I ask one more favor?”

            “Of course.”

            “Let me tell you that I love you every day.”

            Shifting, Keith sat up. His cheeks still held a lingering flush, and the look in his eyes was both tired and satisfied. He smiled, and Lance’s mind went to one of the lyrics from that sheet music Keith had arranged especially for him. A song that had inspired Lance to pursue the impossible. A song that was the favorite song of the _person_ who had inspired him to do the impossible.

            _Baby, you’re the only thing in this whole world that’s pure and good and right._

Keith leaned down and touched a chaste kiss to Lance’s mouth.

            “Okay,” he said. “But only if you do the same for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH! I hope you enjoyed it!!
> 
> Spoiler that's not really a spoiler: Most of the Luxite and Upright & Respectable concert is going to take place in the blank space of the chapter break, so I'm leaving a lot of it up to you and your imagination! LISTEN TO THE PLAYLIST. DO IT. YOU WILL NOT BE DISAPPOINTED.
> 
> YouTube playlist here: [link](https://youtu.be/v84KMXHIf9M)
> 
> Setlist  
> Holding Out for a Hero - Bonnie Tler  
> Get It On - Chase  
> Union of the Snake - Duran Duran  
> Short Skirt/Long Jacket - Cake  
> Rapture - Blondie  
> One Fine Morning - Lighthouse  
> Goody Two Shoes - Adam Ant  
> What Is Hip? - Tower of Power  
> Straight Up - Paula Abdul  
> Stay With Me - Ten Wheel Drive  
> Bat Out of Hell - Meat Loaf
> 
> If you only listen to one of these songs, make it "Bat Out of Hell".
> 
> Thank you, lovelies!! As always, hit me with those comments and kudos. That shit's like morphine. 
> 
> I'll see you soon with an epilogue. Mwah!


	4. Coda

Playing Keith’s arrangement of “Bat Out of Hell” in front of a paying audience was an experience Lance almost couldn’t comprehend. The raw energy, the way that energy swept through him—swept through all of them—and amplified their abilities. He left his body a little bit, watched himself from the outside. His mind wandered, too, backwards in time to October. To the first time he’d seen Keith perform. Purple lights. Black lipstick. Music plucked from strings that at the time had seemed a siren’s call.

            Lance looked toward Keith at the front of the stage. He stood as a silhouette, an aura of lights illuminating his edges. He lived the music, channeled his whole body into his performance.

            Jesus, Lance loved him so much.

            Beyond Keith, Lance could just distinguish the audience closest to the edge of the stage. His family was out there cheering. So were Shiro and Hunk and Pidge, and the Holts, and Ryner, and Nyma and Rolo—the people who believed in him, told him he was capable. He turned back to the stage. To Matt and Rizavi. To Griffin and Kinkade. In that moment, Lance marveled at the ease with which they’d melded together. This was his band. This was his _band._ And it would only grow. It would only get better. They had the whole world in front of them and the possibilities were endless.

            He stopped himself from thinking that they could be something special because he had to admit that they already were.

            He looked at his hands. Were those his fingers? Was that _him_ playing?

            Yes and no.

            He was there, physically, but he wasn’t alone. Not on stage, and not in the universe. He was part of something greater, something bigger, something grander.

            He was part of music.

            He was one irreplaceable facet in a vast nebula of facets that had been part of humanity from the very beginning. An attempt to express the unexpressable. To emote. To invoke emotion in others. To take a feeling and give it life, give it sound, give it to other people. To comprehend the incomprehensible.

            _That_ was what Lance was part of.

            He knew now that he would play, he would create, for the rest of his life no matter what came of it.

            Because music in itself was its own reward.

 

After the concert, everybody went to Ryner’s to celebrate. The whole house lit up with company and music and drinks and laughter. Pidge insisted on occupying the porch, determined to have her “porch party” in spite of the snow and cold. Lance introduced everyone to his family and his family to everyone, met Griffin’s parents and Kinkade’s friends, and got swept up in the overwhelming network of support, the feeling of love.

            That feeling only increased when he went looking for Keith and found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, talking with Lance’s mom and dad.

            Lance stopped dead in his tracks and just…watched. His vision seemed cinematic somehow, the edges of everything blurring so that only his parents and Keith were in focus. He watched as Ramón gestured emphatically while he spoke, watched as Keith laughed, watched as Teresa affectionately put her hand on Keith’s arm. Then all three of them glanced his direction and smiled, and Lance moved to join them as if pulled by a magnet.

            He slung an arm around Keith’s shoulders, and Keith wrapped one around Lance’s waist, tucking himself close as Lance joined the group.

            “I was just telling Keith about that Latin Jazz group we used to go see in Havana, remember, Lance?” Ramón said, smacking Lance’s chest with the back of his hand.

            “Papi, I was three when we moved,” Lance replied with a laugh.

            “ _Ay,_ you missed out, then.”

            He smacked Lance again, which prompted another laugh from Keith, who snuggled closer, hugging both arms around Lance’s middle. Brushing his fingers through his hair, Lance looked down at him with a smile.

            “I think Hunk and Shay and her brother should be here soon,” Lance said. “Wanna camp on the porch with me?”

            “Sure,” Keith replied with a smile.

            “Why do you always take him from us, _cariño?_ ” Teresa complained.

            “I’ll be back,” Keith replied while Lance led him away. “I want to hear about Havana.”

            As they went, Teresa leaned over to Ramón and Lance heard her speak softly to him. “ _En talla_ ,” she said. _It’s a good fit._ Lance’s already full heart overflowed.

            Out on the porch, Pidge sat bundled in a bunch of coats, one of Kolivan’s fancy craft beers in her hand. Matt stood with her, shivering, though clearly enjoying his beer a lot more than she was. Both raised their bottles to toast Lance and Keith as they stepped through the door.

            “Congrats, my dudes,” Pidge said. “That was a killer concert.”

            “Thanks,” Keith said, hopping onto the windowsill to sit. Lance joined him, lacing their fingers together.

            “Seeing you guys up there made me wish I still played saxophone,” Pidge remarked. She shook her fist in the air mockingly. “Curse Mr. Baumberger for convincing me to switch to bassoon in ninth grade.”

            Lance slipped off the windowsill and almost fell on his ass. “ _Pidge!_ ”

            She jumped, spilling her beer. “Good god, _what?_ ”

            “Why didn’t you _tell_ me you played sax?!”

            “Uh, because I _don’t?_ ” she replied. “I haven’t touched a sax in a thousand years.”

            She shook her hands out to get the beer off, but Lance knelt down on the porch in front of her and grabbed both of them. Pidge froze, staring at him with her eyebrows raised high.

            “Pidge,” Lance began. “Light of my life, gremlin of my heart.” He gazed up at her imploringly, putting on his best puppy-dog eyes. “What do I have to do to get you to play sax again?”

            A startled laugh burst from Pidge’s mouth. She chuckled until she saw that Lance’s expression did not change. Then her face went pale and her jaw dropped open.

            “You’re _serious?_ ”

            “Pidge, the whole point of the concert tonight was to help us find more members for the band,” Lance said. He clutched her hands together and put them over his heart. “What do you say? Be our second saxophone?”

            Straightening, Pidge slowly closed her mouth and swallowed. She glanced at Matt and Keith, both of whom gave her encouraging smiles.

            “There’s gonna be a bitch of a learning curve if I pick it back up…”

            “Do you _want_ to pick it back up?” Lance asked.

            Pidge took a deep breath. She shut her eyes, squeezed them tight. Her cheeks puffed up as they filled with air, and she held her breath for a solid five seconds. Then she nodded. Matt and Lance let out matching cries of delight.

            “What’s the screaming about?”

            Lance turned to find Hunk headed up the front walk, the biggest smile on his face. That smile probably had a lot to do with the girl who had her arm looped with his—tall, olive-skinned, dark hair shorn in an angular bob, wearing a pretty sizable smile herself. Shay. Behind them, a guy who looked almost identical to her followed close.

            “Pidge is gonna join Upright & Respectable!” Matt called.

            “For real?” Hunk replied as he reached the bottom porch step. “That’s awesome!”

            “Any chance you’re looking for a second trumpet, too?” Shay asked, blushing, clearly joking, but Lance shot to his feet and rushed to her.

            “ _Oh my god_. Hunk said you played trumpet—I didn’t—hi, I’m Lance, by the way—we’d love to audition you.” He took her hand and shook, though Shay’s arm was understandably limp. He’d kind of come at her with a full-frontal assault.

            “Seriously?” she squeaked.

“Yeah, dead serious. Plague serious.”

            “Oh, wow. _Wow._ Um, okay.” She laughed, her smile growing bigger and bigger by the second. “Do you need a drummer, too? Rax is very good.”

            “Hush…” Rax said, but the word barely left his mouth.

            Lance could hardly believe his ears. Could hardly believe his _luck._ If Pidge took up sax again and Rax and Shay worked out, they’d only be missing a bassist. He hadn’t expected the concert to _work,_ not _this_ well, not this _soon_. Bewildered, he glanced back at Keith, who was still perched on the windowsill. Keith just grinned, an I-told-you-so look on his face. Lance turned back to Rax and Shay.

            “Do you really play?”

            Rax nodded.

            “Then we’ll audition you. Absolutely.”

            Shay beamed. She clutched her hands together and turned to Rax in excitement. Rax did his best not to look pleased and failed. Hunk met Lance’s eye, and he looked so resplendently happy that Lance had to swallow to keep from tearing up.  

            “Holy shit…” Pidge breathed.

            Lance glanced at her. “What?”

            “I just agreed to learn to play sax again.” Her eyes went wide, and she stared blankly at the porch for a beat before shooting to her feet. “ _Holy shit._ I gotta talk to Kinkade…”

            She disappeared through the front door bellowing Kinkade’s name at the top of her lungs before Lance could snap his fingers. Chuckling, Matt moved to follow, but paused beside Lance and put a hand on his shoulder.

            “Thanks, man,” he said. “For asking me to be a part of this.”

            “Thanks for _being_ a part of it,” Lance replied.

            They smiled at each other, warm and heartfelt. Four years of playing side-by-side in Wind Ensemble wouldn’t have to come to an end after graduation. They could stick together now. For years. Decades, even. Lance was so lucky to have the friends he had. Matt patted his shoulder, then slipped through the front door. Keith offered to get Rax a beer. Which left Lance on the porch with Hunk and Shay. He turned to the latter with a smile.

            “That was a whirlwind, I’m sorry,” he said, extending his hand to her again. “I’m Lance. It’s so good to meet you.”

            “Shay,” she said and shook with him. “And don’t worry about it. Hunk warned me that you all tend to be…energetic.”

            Lance laughed. “I’m sure the word he used wasn’t nearly that nice.”

            An apologetic expression overtook Shay’s features, and Lance laughed again when Hunk glowered at him.

            “Don’t worry about it. How’s your grandma doing?” Lance asked.

            “Much better,” Shay said, letting her breath out. “She came to the concert tonight. She wanted me to tell you how wonderful she thought it was.”

            “I’ll take that as a high compliment,” Lance replied. Smiling, he moved to the door to show them inside. “I’m sure you don’t want to stand in the cold…”

            As he pulled open the door, Rizavi jumped and looked up at him on the other side, her hand frozen halfway to the handle. She had another girl with her—thin with blue eyes and blonde hair that bordered on a bowl cut. Freckles spattered the bridge of her nose, and she looked at Lance with an expression that seemed almost blank but that made him feel like she was taking in his every atom.

            “Lance, we were looking for you,” Rizavi said, grinning. She slipped outside so Hunk and Shay could go in, and the blonde girl followed her. “This is Ina Leifsdottir. She just transferred to my school. We met in my history of early music class.”

            The girl extended her hand, so Lance shook.

            “She plays bass.”

            All at once, Lance grasped Ina’s hand and shook harder.

            “Oh my god, do you really?”

            Ina nodded. “Yes. I like it. It is deceptive in its simplicity.”

            Lance had no idea what the hell she meant, but he didn’t care. _A bassist_. He and Rizavi babbled at each other in excitement, arranged to have Ina come to their next rehearsal so that she could audition for everybody. Then Lance realized he hadn’t set up a time with Rax and Shay, and Rizavi about exploded at the news that they might be joining the band, too. Grabbing Ina’s hand, Rizavi rushed off to talk to them herself, leaving Lance on the porch alone.

            He let his breath out, and it condensed into a cloud on the cold December air. Through the house, he could hear the muffle of the party, feel the warmth of so many bodies in one space. Before him in the window, that gorgeous piano Ryner had been gracious enough to let him play. A smile rose on Lance’s mouth.

            That smile only brightened when Keith returned to the porch.

            “Your mom invited me and Krolia to Christmas,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “Is that okay?”

            “Is that _okay?_ ” Lance grabbed him and planted a kiss on his lips. “ _Keith._ I wanna spend every goddamn day of my life with you. _Of course_ it’s okay.”

            Keith smiled, and the expression got all squished and adorable since Lance was holding his face in his hands. They leaned toward each other to kiss and kiss again. Then Keith tucked his head under Lance’s chin and wrapped his arms around Lance’s middle and drew in a deep, deep breath, which he let out measured and slow. Lance sighed, contented, resting his cheek on top of Keith’s head.

            Out on the street, a few flurries of snow began to fall.

            “Hey,” Lance said softly. “I have a question for you.”

            “Hm?”

            “Will you be my boyfriend?”

            Laughing, Keith leaned away from him. “What? You wanna make it Facebook official?”

            Lance scowled. “No, I don’t care about Facebook. I just think it’s a conversation worth having, you know? I want to call you my boyfriend, and I don’t—”

            He’d been about to say, “And I don’t want to do that without your permission,” but Keith interrupted the rest of the words with a kiss. Lance let out muffled noise of surprise. Their mouths came apart with a pop _._

“ _Please_ call me your boyfriend,” Keith said softly, his breath warm.

            Exulting, Lance pressed his face forward, pressed his body forward, pressed his lips to Keith’s, holding him close in a crushing embrace that Keith returned. When they pulled back, they only moved an inch—just enough to look in each other’s eyes.

            “I feel like I should give you something, though,” Keith said. “Since you already know I love you.”

            “Like, pin me so all the other boys and girls know we’re steadies?” Lance asked with a laugh, but Keith nodded. He started digging through the pockets on his jeans and unearthed one of his extra thin guitar picks, which he offered to Lance.

            “ _Keith._ ”

            “What?”

            “Do you _want_ me to have an aneurism?”

            “I don’t have a club pin,” Keith replied, scowling, “or a class ring, or a letterman jacket. It’s not 1953. Do you want the pick or not?”

            In answer, Lance pulled him into a kiss. He ran his fingers through that thick hair, slipped that pick from Keith’s hand and clutched it in his own, gripped it so tight that the edges dug into his palm. Keith had only played guitar for one song that night—Bat Out of Hell. Lance knew that the pick he held in his hand now was the one Keith had used for the concert. He could feel the energy on it, the burn. He would keep it forever.

            “I love you _so_ much,” he said once he broke their kiss.

            Smiling, Keith nuzzled his nose against Lance’s and touched their lips together one more time. “I love you, too, Boy Scout. To the ends of the earth.”

            Lance drew Keith in and held onto him, tucking his chin over Keith’s shoulder. They said nothing, simply breathed together as the snow started to fall in earnest. Lance would never let go, not for as long as he could help it. Like his mom had said, this was a special boy. And Lance was going to take good care of him. They were going to take good care of each other. He’d thought he’d been in love with Keith before, that first time he’d seen him at Blade Base, but he’d been wrong.

            He was in love with Keith _now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it.
> 
> This fic has been SUCH a joy to write, and I am so thankful to all of you for reading and for you kudos and comments! They're such wonderful little affirmations to receive, and I adore every single one. Thank you, thank you!
> 
> Also, this fic is now officially part of a series because I can't help myself, lol! I hope you'll stick around for the next one! 
> 
> Thank you again, and much love!!


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